147 - Words from the Maker, Scars from the Breaker
Extended Holiday
Ch 147: Words from the Maker, Scars from the Breaker
Act 23
A month had gone by, and Grif found himself still dreading to peel away the parchment on the small cylindrical object he’d found in the puzzle box. The stories about the weapon the toy maker had been crafting were old, almost old enough to be considered myth. Gandalfi had been one of the few Gryphons fortunate enough to survive to grow old, and the knowledge he’d gained over his life meant what Grif held in his talons could be any number of devices. It could be some type of bomb, for all he knew.
Gathering up his nerve, Grif traced the parchment with his talons. He moved the edge along it, until he felt a lip, and then he coaxed it up carefully. Slowly, almost reverently, he removed the wrapping to reveal the gleam of polished metal. Soon enough, he held a cylinder in his claws. One end was domed, the other open. Runes covered the base surface, though, currently, they produced no glow, having seemingly been starved of magic for years. A cleverly concealed catch was almost imperceivable as the Gryphon ran his keen eyes over the device. Yet, no matter how Grif poked at it, it refused to open.
With slight confusion, he turned to the parchment, slowly flattening it out to avoid tearing it. The ink was faded, written in the old Gryphic. His eyes devoured the text.
To whomever finds this.
Greetings, clever one. If you are reading this, then you are either a well-educated Zebra or Pony, or as I fear, a Gryphon. You have either figured out the key to unlocking my puzzle or broke the box. I have little control over the outcome, but I can only hope that it is the first and that you are not the violent brute that is so typical of my culture these days.
My name is or was Rinaldo Gestalt Gandalfi, and I lived in the era of Emperor Grisalt the First. I dedicated my life to making youngsters happy, by creating devices that bring joy and wonder to their hearts. But I am afraid my skill was of such renown that the Emperor sent for me with other plans in mind. He forced me to work on a weapon to give our kind an advantage over the wing blades of the Pegasi, which we had failed to re-create for ourselves. What you now hold in your hands is the result of that work. When I faked my own demise, I destroyed my workshop and the plans used to build this device. There is only this one weapon, and what happens to it falls squarely on your shoulders.
If you are a Gryphon, then I beg you to consider carefully what that future will be. What you now hold is what I have come to call the tail blade, a weapon fashioned to make an advantage out of our prehensile tails. The enchanted runes will allow the weapon to respond to your will. To remove the safety, you must verbally state the word ‘brindle’ in a clear voice. You must repeat this word to return the safety to position.
Be warned. To wear this weapon is to bond with it. Once placed on your tail, it will not easily allow itself to be removed, so do not lightly take it into your use.
I am not long for this world, and I fear I must release the future of this device to you, the reader of this letter. I only hope that you are a worthy soul.
With all my hopes for the future,
Rinaldo Gestalt Gandalfi, the Toymaker.
Grif read the letter twice, just to be sure he understood. He eyed the device carefully. A tailblade? All things considered, such a device would be an incredible boon in combat. But to be permanently bonded with it?
Grif weighed the device in his talons as he considered everything. Yet another price was going to be asked of him, and this one was steep, but….
His thoughts ran back to Pensword and his capture at the Minotaurs’ hands. Rage that was repressed for so long built up again, like an inferno. And with the anger’s return, so, too, came the return of an oft-used statement. The words, his own words, echoed in his mind. ‘I’d walk into hell happily for my friends.’
He brought his tail forward and slid the weapon onto the tip, feeding magic into the runes, which quickly began to give off bright light. And then the pain hit. It flared like white fire down the entire length of his spine. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to call out as his nerves stabbed at him again and again. Vision blurred, so he was unable to see the device shift as it came fully to life. With several whirls and clicks, the metal bands tightened, allowing the weapon to adjust itself to its new home. What was once a single cylindrical object had broken apart into segmented plates that clamped down on the flesh beneath. And then, as quickly as it had come, the pain abated.
Grif lay panting for a while, unable to do much else, save think about what he’d just done. When he finally found the strength, he stood, hearing a faint whirring click as his tail swayed behind him. Bringing it forward, he examined the segmented metal now covering a full half a foot of his tail. The once-polished steel now had changed to a fire blackened sheen that melted into his coat color. The runes no longer glowed brightly, but were barely visible above the weapon’s surface. Grif eyed the device for several more seconds, before he finally did it.
“Brindle,” he ordered, and with a pop, a blade flicked forward from the catch he’d been unable to open. It stood a full half a foot in length and bore the same fire-blackened finish. The blade also had a slight curve that gave it a menacing appearance. Grif swung his tail at a nearby length of rope, and the blade severed it easily. Grif gave a predatory grin as he observed the damage. “Brindle,” he ordered again, and the blade retracted just as easily as it had emerged.
With a satisfied smirk, he stepped out of his tent and towards the village proper, his tail whirring and clicking behind him.
It was day forty two, and Pensword had just finished his lunch. He could feel the difference in his muscle tone now as he went about his daily routines. He was finally getting back into proper shape. The constant exercise of hovering to carve had helped build his endurance in flight, and he had become at least somewhat competent in his carving, taking great pleasure in the family portrait he had only recently completed. The crowds continued to mill about, watching, waiting for the Pony’s next move.
He stretched, then sighed. It was getting harder and harder not to fall into stir craziness. Worse yet, aside from taking the time to eat and drink, he realized he’d hardly spoken a word for the last few days. Such things were unhealthy. It would seem that perhaps more singing might be in order.
He slowly walked around the room as he pondered what to sing for the day. He looked at the Minotaurs, and inspiration struck. It didn’t really matter what he sang, if it was in a language they couldn’t understand, especially if that language happened to be English. He bobbed his head, prepping the beat, before breaking into the words and prancing around the room in time. “You can’t take me,” he started.
About a minute into his impromptu performance, he spread his wings and began to fly around the chamber, continuing his song of action and defiance. He flew upside down, performed the backstroke in midair, anything to express himself. After all, this wasn’t just a matter of physical fitness. He had to keep his mind sharp and spirits high. They could cage him, but they wouldn’t cage his spirit; not if he had anything to say about it.
He ended the song with a few grunts and hoos as he slowly glided to the ground. Once again, the crowd of Minotaurs that had watched him so avidly were silent. Confused, the commander cocked his head. He hadn’t heard any music alongside his performance, so it couldn’t have been a heart song. So, why the lack of communication? They’d been amused enough to see him fly and draw. Why did they react to music so differently?
A fierce bellow caused the crowd to jump, and Pensword leaped back as his ears pinned against his skull. A massive brute of a bull in full armor slammed the hidden door open, trailed by one of the guards. His armor was thicker, with more metal pieces. A certain amount of engraving and other metal work had been performed, leaving the Pegasus to frown at the sight. That degree of smithing skill could prove troublesome to the others, assuming they were still on their way to save him.
The burly warrior stomped his hoof aggressively, then lowered a satchel carefully to the table Pensword had used for his meals. The Minotaur proceeded to pantomime the Pony’s singing, holding one hand to his breast, while the other projected outward, and he held his mouth open, like he were holding some great operatic note. Then he shut his mouth and glared at the Pony, shaking his massive head, before pulling the satchel open to reveal crumpled parchment, a series of feathers, and a stone jug with a fixed wax seal stopping the cover. He picked up one of the feathers, then returned to his pantomime of singing again, followed by a swift cut-off, a glare, and snapping the feather in front of Pensword’s face.
The message couldn’t be clearer. Whether it was an order form higher up or simply a distrust of what he may have been doing, the Pegasus had been forbidden to sing. On the plus side, they at least gave him something else to occupy his mind. The bulls turned and left, with the leader snorting his distaste, even as the guard closed the doorway behind them.
Pensword shrugged as he sat at the rough table and broke the wax seal. As he suspected, a fresh well of ink was waiting for him to write. Seeing as he didn’t have much more to do, he figured he might as well write an account of the events leading from his capture to his imprisonment here. He chuckled to himself as he began to write. “I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t sing So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish.”
“All right, gentlemen,” Vital said as he sat with Hammer Strike and Grif once more by their council table. “We’ve been training and preparing for the last month. How close are we to the point where we can start pushing back?”
“I give the archers three weeks. The others need a little longer. But what about provisions? Do we have food and water to sustain a campaign?” Grif asked.
“There are supplies stored up, but with the drop-offs taking place to ship for Equestria, it’s going to be a little tight, until the rest of the land finishes recovering.”
“I might be able to progress things, when it comes to getting more supplies in that regard,” Hammer Strike commented with a hum.
“An army marches on its stomach. Anything we can do to keep that stomach full and happy is going to make things a lot easier. What about the shamans? Have they been able to convince any spirits to aid us in combat?” Grif asked.
“In the defense of the forest and our villages, certainly. But unless the Minotaurs are directly threatening the balance of nature, they can’t interfere more than that. They’re still weak from supporting Gaia for so long,” Vital said.
“So, it looks like our magic abilities are narrowed down to you, for now,” Grif noted.
“I can manage. I’ve got a lot of spellcraft stored up here,” he said, tapping his head. “And I might be able to convince a spirit or two to add a little extra spice to the mix, if it’s needed. Plus, there’s the extra training we both have in common now.”
Starting a week from now, I’m going to take several of the trackers and start scouting out the closest Minotaur encampments to the forest. We can begin building a plan from there.”
“You may want to consider involving one of the Longhorns as well, just to get their perspective on the typical patterns and behaviors. If there’s something the camps are doing that deviates from the norm, they can let you know,” Vital noted.
“I’ve already been examining candidates from them,” Grif nodded. “Have they been useful in the forges?” he asked Hammer Strike.
“We’ve got past the difficult parts, so we’re making more progress,” he replied with a nod.
“If we want to get the best ores, we may need you to find them yourself, Hammer Strike. The land will offer what it can, but it’s not up to being able to give us the volume we require. We may need to train some miners. Temporarily, of course,” Vital said.
“I can easily make more types of metals using thaumaturgy.”
“That’s good to hear.” Vital sighed in relief. “Ivy had a talk with Zecora as well. Apparently, some of the Minotaurs she caught got to meet this mysterious head bull. She gave us an image to work with, if you’re ready to see it.”
“Show me,” Grif said.
The creature Vital projected towered over them. His fur was long and shaggy along his arms and wrists, and along his lower legs to drape over the ground. The hairs on his main coat were a coppery orange with a glaring tan accent over his chest hairs. His horns were thick and high, a polished black that practically glowed as he glowered at them. His muscles strained heavily against his hide, looking practically ready to burst out of his skin. A rough worn hide of a loin cloth draped over his front and back, and a series of burnt markings scarred the fur in intricate patterns.
“Well, he’s definatly imposing enough,” Grif noted.
“Smart enough not to let himself get directly involved in the combat, though, at least not at first,” Vital said.
“He’ll make a mistake sometime. We just need to act on it,” Hammer Strike commented.
“And the more we beat his forces, the more likely he’ll be to make that mistake. They don’t like getting beaten, especially if they think it was done outside the normal means established by culture and precedent,” Vital said.
“I’ll have him out in a week,” Grif said. “This is the guy who has Pensword. Nothing stops, until he’s dead. That's our goal from this point onwards, agreed?”
“Sounds good to me,” Hammer Strike nodded.
Vital frowned. “I guess we don’t have much choice, do we?”
“No, we don’t.” Grif shook his head. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have work to do.” And with that, he left.
The sun beat hot and humid over the rainforest in the distance, and heatwaves rose in ripples to distort sound and sight as the Minotaur forces stared out from their encampment. The last several raiding and scouting parties to enter the Zebras’ domain had not returned. Their forces continued to grow as reinforcements made the trek from the escarpment, though the cows had to remain behind, in order to seek a means to circumvent the wall of fire that blocked all attempts to pass between the great barrier. Signs of the land’s gradual healing showed in the surrounding lands as withering trees began to take strength and wildgrass started to sprout anew. In due course, Sorchak, the head of the war band, emerged from his inspection of their forces to approach the edge of their encampment.
Then, slowly, from out of the wavering air, a figure began to resolve itself. Its coat was a solid tan, its mane a dark brown. No stripes bedecked this strange creature. Instead, the bright blue cloth he had seen the weak Ponies of Equestria wearing as they manned their ships met Sorchak’s eyes. It swayed with its stride as the shimmering air gave way to the solid shape of a stalwart Earth Pony with piercing blue eyes and a flat stare. Sorchak narrowed his gaze suspiciously as he pulled out his great stone warhammer and sounded the call to rouse his troops. He didn’t know what kind of threat, if any, this Pony would pose, but he and the others would be ready for it.
Hammer Strike hummed aloud as he drew closer to the Minotaurs. “Different from what I was expecting,” he commented, before giving a faint shrug. “I am here to discuss terms.”
Sorchak raised his brow in some surprise. “You speak our language. What are these terms you speak of?”
“The terms of your surrender,” Hammer Strike replied simply.
Sorchak laughed. “Surrender? To a puny Pony? Oh, you are funny, little Pony.” The whole of the encampment burst into a collective fit of laughter.
“I’d laugh, but I lost my sense of humor years ago,” Hammer Strike replied as a small grin grew on his face. “No, no. I’m quite serious. I am here to discuss your surrender, or else.”
“And what, exactly, are we surrendering for?” Sorchak snarked as he struggled to contain his laughter.
“For your opportunity to live an extra day.”
“And you’re going to kill us?”
“That would be correct,” he replied simply. “Either way, this got me out of the forge, so take all the time you need to form your response.”
“This isn’t your land. Why are you here? Who sent you?”
“Two reasons: One, the Zebras were in need of assistance, and two–.” Hammer Strike’s hooves burst into flames as a ring of fire grew around the camp. “You took one of my friends, and I’m not particularly happy about that.”
Upon seeing the sudden explosion of blue fire around the encampment and the glint of murderous intent, Sorchak leapt into action, slamming down his hammer with all the force he could muster. The Pony didn’t even move aside. It would be a simple matter to end him and whatever magic he’d brought from that weak continent here and now.
The hammer stopped abruptly against Hammer Strike, and before Sorchak could do anything else, the Earth Pony lunged forward, bringing his hoof back as he struck at the minotaur’s knee, shattering it in one efficient strike.
Sorchak bellowed in pain as he leaned on his hammer for support. The rest of the camp took that as their cue, and proceeded to attack en masse. However as they got close, a blast of heat erupted outwards from the Pony. Sorchak watched as his warriors bellowed in pain and their skin boiled and blistered from the heat. Geysers of steaming blood erupted as veins ruptured from the sudden pressure of intense boiling. Only he and Hammer Strike were immune to the destruction around them.
With a coolness that frightened the brave Minotaur to his bones, the Earth Pony approached. He casually reared onto his back hooves and grabbed the Minotaur’s horns, pulling his head down farther.
“If you’re not going to surrender, then deliver a message. That was your only warning. As of now, every Minotaur we encounter between here and your home, we kill. Your cities will burn around the bodies that will be left in our wake. Go back to your king and tell him that death is coming.” Hammer Strike released his grip momentarily, and he could feel the Minotaur shudder with relief, only for the Earth Pony to give one savage pull. A sharp double crack erupted over the sound of the dying Minotaurs’ screams. Two broken horns hit the ground as Hammer Strike turned away and the shadows rose to slowly devour him. “We’ll be seeing you.”
Sorchak stared at the Pony, then gaped down at the two pieces of bone and keratin that now lay at his feet. The open bone left on his head throbbed, like a pair of wedges hammering into his brain, but he didn’t care. Liquid dribbled down the side of his leg. He didn’t care. The scent of defecation carried heavily on the air. Sorchak didn’t care. All he knew, all he felt, all he was, was no more. Fear: primal, terrible, and absolute, had made its claim. And he would not deny it as he gibbered insanely, gaping at the frying corpses that had once been his herd. The only thing keeping him in the realm of sanity were those wedges and the throbbing of his swollen knee, where the Pony had shattered his kneecap.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the proud warrior turned, jabbed his hammer into the ground, and began to limp away, using the shaft as a third leg. He would deliver his message. Anything to escape that … that … thing.
“Not that I’m criticising,” Vital Spark said as he looked off at the lone speck in the distance, “but wasn’t the point of this supposed to be to give our troops the chance to join you in the fight and build their confidence more?”
“I needed to make a point, and I believe I made that point,” Hammer Strike replied.
“A master of politics, as ever,” Grif said, smiling.
“And the overlord of overkill,” Vital added.
“Hey, if you want progress, give them something to move on,” Hammer Strike shrugged.
Disiungitur was a mighty steer, even by Minotaur standards, standing a full two heads taller than his fellows and with twice the muscle mass. His horns were harder than stone, and his strength was enough to break the backs of any opponent. That was if they were lucky. His other means of conquest were more direct, and far more deadly. He snorted angrily as he glared at the escarpment. From the vast heights of the holy mountain, he could see the beacon that was the Zebras’ accursed power bobbing mirthfully, like a candle’s flame. He didn’t like being laughed at.
The females who tended the holy mountain had been conversing with the spirits of the mountain for weeks, seeking a means to open the passage and thwart the barrier that blocked entry into the Zebras’ territory. Until now, their efforts had proven fruitless. If killing them weren’t an offense to the gods, he would have given them a more proper form of motivation to find a solution.
“Tell me you’ve made progress,” he growled.
“We can only do so much, revered herd leader,” the lead cow reported. The great gourd hanging from her staff sighed with the sound of rain. “Whoever is responsible for this barrier holds sway over the spirits of the heavens. The fire that rages over the passage is not of this world, but of the sun and stars. We cannot commune with such spirits, let alone overwhelm them.”
Disiungitur smashed his hand against the cave wall, sending several cracks out from the point of impact. “That’s not good enough,” he said in a deadly quiet voice.
“It is all we can do. We were fortunate enough to be able to open the way the first time, and the land has grown stronger since, with the return of the waters. The way will not yield so easily to us again.”
Disiungitur bellowed his frustration. “You’re telling me that I have an army waiting to strike our enemies, the foes that tried to destroy us with thirst and hunger, and we can’t even send them to fight?”
“The land is unsettled. The rocks murmur again and again, and they speak the same things.”
“And that is?”
“Go back. Return. Leave.” She shook her head as she leaned on her staff for support. “Whatever the reason, we are being told to stop this fight, or at the very least to retreat.”
Disiungitur snorted and shook his head as he narrowed his eyes and glared at the cow. “We do not retreat.”
“I only say what the land speaks to us,” the cow said in a level tone as she looked up at the tower of rage. “We cannot change its thoughts, nor its actions, without consequences.”
“Damn the consequences,” he roared.
“Herd leader,” a deep grunt spoke from behind.
Disiungitur rounded on the stranger with a savage snarl. “What?”
The bull that stood before the head bull was bedecked in a full set of heavy metal armor draped with mail to protect his loins. Only the protectors were allowed to wear such vestments in exception to their traditions, that the females would be best guarded. “Someone has arrived from the wall. They crossed over from the other side.”
That immediately grabbed Disiungitur’s attention. “Take me to him, at once,” he commanded.
“Of course, revered leader.” The protector bowed his head in acquiescence, then turned to lead the way.
Pensword sat at his breakfast nook. Ten days. It had been ten days since the forceful edict from his captors. Ten days that he hadn’t had a choice whether to sing or not. For an Equestrian, that could be deemed as a form of torture. Fortunately for Pensword, he had a strong mind and a healthy level of self-control. That being said, some itches didn’t go away so easily, and this one had been eating at him for days now.
He sighed as the familiar trilling of the birds in the garden flowed into his ears again. The bulls hadn’t once had a bad reaction to the creatures. Why was he so different? Had he done something to offend them? He pondered that point as he chewed his breakfast. The dates were pleasant enough, a sort of mellow sweetness, not unlike fig newtons. The other fruit was incredibly tart, so he tried to finish them first and clear the bitter aftertaste with the dates.
Once he’d finished his meal, he flicked his tail and flared his wings to bristle his feathers. He might as well show off his discontent, if they weren’t going to give him the freedom he sought. He walked outside to the garden and perked his ears as a distant rumble carried on the wind. A storm was rolling in, wild and untamed. His wings twitched again, yearning to fly, to be in those clouds, to guide the system where it needed to go. But the net wouldn’t allow him to leave, and the Minotaurs wouldn’t be very pleased with the attempt, either. His nail had allowed him the chance to fray through the net’s ropes once before, but his hard work was completely undone by the next morning. The Minotaurs had clearly dealt with escape attempts before from their pets. He sputtered in frustration, then dove into the pond to wash himself again.
In due course, the storm clouds advanced, and he looked up with an eager sort of giddiness as the thunder loomed overhead. The steady rumble beat almost like a drum, and the Pegasus couldn’t help but tap his hooves to that rhythmic crack as he pulled himself out from the water. He looked around in the darkening skies and grinned as his wings twitched in anticipation. Storm riding and manipulation always pulled at a Pegasus, if the weather wasn’t properly controlled. It’s why they always worked to fly so fast and hard off shift. It gave them the exertion they needed to burn off the nervous energy. That combined with the urges he’d been fighting left him practically ready to burst. He snorted, then growled in frustration. He had to do something.
And that’s when he saw it. A heavily shadowed alcove sat just outside the view of potential spectators. The coming storm left few, if any, to watch, anyways. And if the thunder was loud enough, then maybe, just maybe…. He snuck into the alcove as the thunder crackled, then exploded. Yes, that would do nicely. It was worth the risk.
“Well you think you can take me on, you must be crazy….,” he began to sing as the rain fell and the thunder rumbled overhead. His song of defiance gave vent to his frustrations at last, and a shudder of pleasure rocked his frame. He needed this.
Pensword laughed as the water drenched his fur and the winds drove the rain in his face. He spread his wings wide and imagined he was riding the storm. Music flowed freely, intermixed with whoops and hollers of exultation at simply being. For the first time in a long time, the Pegasus tasted freedom, and it was beyond description.
At last, the storm began to abate, and with it, so did Pensword. The rain slackened, and ultimately stopped, leaving the muted light of the sun to pass through the scudding clouds. Eventually, the sun broke through, spreading its golden rays over the garden and causing the flowers and grass to sparkle like jewels. Everything seemed new, cleansed and polished to utter perfection. Eventually, the birds emerged from their hiding places, singing, chirping, and otherwise communicating as the norm reasserted itself.
After a light snack of freshly washed grass that tasted surprisingly savory, he made his way back to the stairs with an almost foalish prance in his step. The world felt right again, and new ideas for his art sprung up from the vaults of his mind, finally released by his musical outlet. He continued to grin, until his nose smashed against hard stone.
Pensword hissed in pain as he reached a hoof up to rub the point of impact gingerly. “What the…?” He peered at the wall, surprised to find the entrance completely sealed off. There was no sign of any sort of doorway or even a remnant of where one had been. No cracks, no seams. He’d been cut off from his room. A sinking feeling struck in his gut as his reflexes and senses went onto high alert. This was new. If the Minotaurs were deviating, then that meant he needed to be ready for anything.
He quickly took wing. If they were going to come for him, they would have to capture him first. His keen eyes were quick to search over the garden. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, at first, but due diligence soon revealed the subtle changes that had taken place. The familiar burble of his bathing pool no longer danced in his ears. He flew over to investigate. A barren patch of damp earth was all that remained, filled to be perfectly level with the remainder of the garden. A quick check soon confirmed his other suspicion. The alcove he had taken shelter in had been sealed, just like the door to his room. The removal of the comforts his captors had provided him could only mean one thing. They had heard him singing, and they hadn’t approved.
“All right, then,” Pensword said to himself. “If you’re going to come for me, you’ll have to be ready for a fight.”
He should have anticipated it, but after living with the thing for so long, Pensword had forgotten to take the potential of the device into account. Too late. Too late. A great weight slammed down on him from above, pressing against his back and pinning him to a tree limb.
“Damn it,” he swore.
The net. How could he have forgotten about the net? The ropes had been inserted into a series of rocks by a means Pensword couldn’t understand, but he certainly understood what that weight meant for him, and what would doubtless follow, if he didn’t get out of his predicament soon. He let out a feral snarl as his pupils narrowed to slits, and he tapped the primal energies within to squirm, bite, and otherwise struggle against his prison. He continued to fight, even as the shadow fell over his body, even as the downward arc began. He knew the pain that awaited him. But he would fight, until the last. And so, he did, until the sudden impact, the twisting of his neck, a strange falling sensation, and then the blackness.
Vital Spark knocked politely on the tent pole to Fjüra’s temporary dwelling. As it had before, the entrance was guarded by a detachment of Zebra troops and surrounded by a series of crystals that Grif and Hammer Strike had arranged specifically for her protection as well as her imprisonment.
“Come in,” the Minotaur said.
“Lady Fjüra, I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion, but I had a few questions I wanted to ask you about the upcoming campaign,” Vital said as he bowed his head respectfully to the cow.
“I’m not sure how much I can help, but ask away,” she said.
“Your tribe is currently involved in the affairs of this war as well, if my understanding of your chieftain’s son’s actions are correct. Is there any means we can communicate what really happened to them that the other Minotaurs won’t be able to interpret?”
“The only way to do that would be to send a messenger directly to them,” she sighed.
“And I assume that wouldn’t work in this particular scenario,” Vital frowned. “That complicates things. I don’t want anyone in the Longhorn tribe getting hurt, but I can’t guarantee Hammer Strike and Grif will share the same sentiments. If they get in our way, they’ll kill them to get to Pensword. Is there a possibility of communicating through the earth itself, something only your fellow cows can hear?”
“Not from here.” She shook her head. “Maybe when we’re closer.”
“Would it help if we developed a means to amplify it?”
“That's possible, yes.”
“I’ll see about what we can come up with between the three of us. What’s your current maximum range?”
“What measurements do you use?”
“We have a variety of systems. It’s best if you simply explain the basis of yours. We can work out the calculations from there.”
“I can extend my power for seven leagues or ten thousand hooflengths.”
“We can work with that,” Vital said. “Also, I wanted to ask you for your personal opinion, since you know the bulls in your delegation better than we do. We have a special mission coming up that will require a shaman from the Zebras and from your own party. Do you have anyone that you would recommend that could bear working with a Zebra?”
“I can think of a few names,” she said. “But most of them will do so anyway, because a deal was made.”
“And act in harmony, with a genuine potential to develop fondness and friendship?”
“Fight with the Zebras.”
“And that will be enough for them all?”
“An agreement has been made. If that isn’t enough for them, then they must take it up with me.”
“I meant to develop closer relationships, not just to respect us as we work together. The mission we have in mind may require such a relationship to exist between the two we send, in order to succeed.”
“Those things take time, Vital Spark.”
“I’m aware. In that case, allow me to amend my request. Please, keep an eye out for any of your bulls who develop such a relationship during the course of this campaign. If, and hopefully when that relationship or those relationships emerge, we would like to know, to better sort through potential candidates. Is this more reasonable?”
“Very well.” She nodded. “I will do this.”
“Thank you. The reasons for the request and the urgency of the mission will become apparent in due time,” the Unicorn promised. “In the meanwhile, I also wanted to visit you as a matter of … I suppose professional curiosity.” He sat himself down to join the cow in her meditation. “If it isn’t overstepping any bounds, I was curious if we might be able to compare our tribes’ methods of communion and manipulation in regards to the earth and the spirits.”
Fjüra smiled. “Well, to begin….”
“So, are they ready?” Grif asked Vital as he shined the plates of his armor with a rag.
“About as ready as they’ll be able to be, under the circumstances. The Minotaurs declined my offer to enhance their weapons. Understandable, given their culture. They should be strong enough to hold their own against their brothers, anyways. This will be the first time I actually see Minotaurs and Zebras working together in a full mobilized armed force.” Vital frowned. “How did they do in the smaller parties? Were there any problems?”
“They worked well enough. A bit clunky, but we don’t have time to work out the kinks in this machine we’ve created. Tomorrow, we start our first field battle. How are the food stores?”
“Adequate. The wild trees have begun bearing fruit again, and the baobabs have started to come back from their withering. It won’t be long before we’ll be able to use them to harvest any water supplies we need on our journey, if we don’t have another ready source nearby.”
“Weapons have been distributed?”
“And properly enchanted. Those Minotaurs are going to be in for quite the surprise.”
“Are they ready for travel?”
“Tents and supplies have been prepared. We can march whenever you wish, and supply lines have been arranged to follow behind us.”
“Tomorrow, we start pushing them back to the wall. Once we have the wall, we’ll work on getting past it.” Grif ran his talons over a plate on his armor, looking for dents. “If they keep a foothold on this side, then we’ll be in more trouble than we need.”
“If there are any cows, you realize we may need to give them the chance to surrender. Many of them are of a similar mind to Fjüra. Plus, they’d make excellent hostages, in the event our campaign comes down to an exchange.”
“It won’t,” Grif said, as if stating a fact so fundamental that the universe itself revolved around it. “But I’ll consider it.”
“And the strategy for this run is going to be a no survivors scenario, I assume.” Vital frowned. “And I just realized something. The cows can communicate with each other, if they’re close enough. If we do take them hostage, and they don’t choose to join our cause, they’ll be able to warn of our attacks.”
“Now your starting to think strategically,” Grif nodded, “which is why we’ll be keeping them in elevated cages made of refined steel.”
“You do realize that steel is still technically of the earth, right? Also, we’ll have to silence them, without damaging them. A bellow is just as good as any other means to communicate for them.”
“Steel is refined and unnatural in its existence,” Grif noted. “And Hammer Strike will have some ideas in that regard.”
“I assumed he might. You might want to counsel with Fjüra, just to be certain that levitating them off the ground will be enough to do the trick.
“I will.” Grif nodded. “For now, you need to check your gear over, then get some sleep.”
“And what about you? You going to test out that new toy of yours?” Vital asked, motioning towards the tail blade with his horn.
“Tomorrow. For now, I’m going to make sure everything is clean and ready, pray, and then prepare for tomorrow.”
“Those other two sound suspiciously like a part of the third,” Vital noted.
“You realize I clean and oil my gear before I go to bed every night, right?” Grif asked.
“Still counts as prep,” Vital smirked.
“Just get your butt to bed,” Grif chuckled.
“After I finish my last rounds,” Vital promised. “I want to make sure everyone’s set to their shifts and getting their rest, including you, big shot.” He smiled as he nudged the Gryphon gently with a hoof.
“I’ll sleep soon. I’m just finishing up.”
“You’d better. I don’t want to have to pour ice down your back to keep you awake tomorrow.”
Pensword didn’t know what day it was. He didn’t know what time it was. All he did know was the terrible throbbing shooting waves of pain across his side, neck, and jaw. He turned his neck ever so slowly to the side, doing his best not to exacerbate the jolts that struck there. A low gasp of horror escaped him as he looked on the sight of thick bandages and bare skin.
His wings. His beautiful wings. He hissed in pain as the muscles twitched on reflex. The bound wing hardly moved at all. Not only had they plucked him of his plumage, they had broken the bone to ensure he couldn’t try to fly, until he healed. His free wing looked more like a giant chicken’s, in its current condition.
For the briefest of moments, rage overthrew pain as Pensword grit his teeth in outrage. That only grew worse, when he felt the distinct pressure preventing his jaw from shifting properly. He crossed his eyes to behold the source of his discomfort.
A muzzle. They had dared to muzzle him, like some rabid animal! A low growl rumbled from the equine’s chest as he tossed his head out of habit, only to wince. The pain returned with a vengeance, along with a new throbbing in his head. He would have to take it easy the next few days. That much was clear. Once he’d recuperated enough, however, he would plot. Oh yes, he would most definitely plot. It was time to take off the kid gloves. Dangerous or not, if these slavers came after him again, thaumaturgy would likely be his only possible weapon. The question was how to utilize it, without killing himself in the process?
He performed a gradual examination of his surroundings as he pondered the strategy. The room appeared to be the same as before. The table was there, as were the walls and ceiling, but all signs of his artwork had been completely done away with, either chipped or smoothed over by the creatures’ strange control over stone. On the plus side, the papers he had been given were still sitting on the table, as were his previous writings. He saw no signs of the ink or quills, though.
Pensword winced as he felt his bladder calling. That would mean having to move. He really didn’t want to move right now. He took a deep breath, grit his teeth once more, and rose shakily to his legs. The throbbing pounded at his body, like a titanic wave, striking, ebbing, then slamming again, after it gathered momentum.
He staggered into the bathroom, the familiar hole awaiting his churning stomach as his body rebelled against his actions. Up above him, his tallies sat, staring mockingly back at him from their place higher up. He took the time to count them, after he settled himself properly.
Seventy lines. Seventy days. Two months by the Equestrian calendar. He had been a PoW for two months, and already managed to goad his guards into brutality. “Way to go, Pensword,” he muttered through the muzzle. His eyes fell on a loose chunk of rock in the corner of the room. At the very least, he would be able to resume his tally again, albeit on the floor, rather than up in the air.
He sighed as he finished his business and struggled back to the main room, before collapsing again onto the floor. Time passed, but as the old saying goes, an idle mind is the devil’s workshop, and Pensword had plenty of new demons to replace the old, now that he was no longer a major attraction, or so he assumed.
“Am I going to die?” he asked himself. “Are they going to execute me?” It was a feasible scenario, all things considered. If he became too much of a burden, there would be little reason to keep up his care. He certainly hadn’t given them any lately.
Despite his best efforts, his imagination, anger, fear, and bruised pride would not be silent. The demons continued to whisper their dreaded what-ifs, and Pensword lost himself to the spiral of hopelessness, powerless to resist, until the darkness finally claimed him again, and his doubts were dragged into the silence.
It was a simple enough day. The longrass and forest trees were covered in morning dew, waiting to evaporate in the rapidly rising heat. The bulls had lowed their morning calls toward their homeland, where the great ones slept, and now had begun their battle preparations, donning crude armor and testing their strength against one another in a contest as old as their race: locking horns and butting heads. The commander of their camp looked on in approval as he pulled a cuirass over his form to shine brightly in the sun as he pulled a jagged wrought iron mace from its place on a reinforced wooden stand. When the troops had finished establishing the chain of command, he would call for them to line up, and then they would prepare for the assault on the forest. The lack of a cow in their camp to ensure proper communication left their herd divided, but so long as this smaller herd stood together, they would, doubtless, succeed in their objective, and the true children of the land would inherit their possessions. So it had been promised by Disiungitur, and so they would act as their head bull commanded.
It took the commander a moment to realize how strangely silent the contest grounds had become. Had the selection already completed itself so soon? He stepped out from the shelter of his tent and into the sunlight. The bulls stood there, dumbfounded, with heads cocked. What were they–?
And then he heard it. The sound was low and quiet, but steady, pulsing, and drawing closer. With the end of each repetitive round, the drumming grew louder, before changing to a new rhythm. A deep constant boom sounded beneath to carry the rest as a blocky sound mixed with the almost tinny reverberations of its fellows. It spoke of excitement, of a building tension, of a call to action, to order–.
“To arms,” the commander gasped, finishing his thought as his eyes widened. “To arms!” he bellowed. “Prepare for attack!”
That was as far as he would get. From the trees, the army seemed to appear out of thin air. Lines of Zebras marched out in a quick unified step. They wore traditional Zebra armor, but upgraded with metal plates, instead of wood. They carried metal shields, and their weapons had steel blades and points. Dotted amongst the Zebras were some of their own kin, Longhorns geared in minimal steel plating. The first four rows of Zebras all carried fine metal-tipped bows with a quiver strapped across each of their backs. In the back, wagons were being pulled, all loaded with two Zebras sitting across from one another, playing the rows of drums that laid between them to set the pace of the march.
On the right side, walking in front of the army, a tall, heavily scarred Earth Pony stood without a shred of armor to his name, just a blue and gold long coat that had no place on the battlefield. A massive warhammer forged in the Equestrian style lay on the stallion’s back, complete with a savage-looking curved spike at the back.
A white horned Pony stood to the left, wearing a set of icy-blue robes accented by polished metal attachments. A peytral wrapped around his shoulders and chest, accentuated by the ebony necklace embedded with bright blue sapphires. A series of bright metal bands rose up his neck, forming the criniere that would serve to guard against any blows from arrows or projectiles. His golden mane flowed down his back and glinted silver in the morning light, as if it were melding with the armor. A staff stood firmly clasped in one hoof, while a burnished metal shield lay atop his back. Two items protruded from either side of the Pony’s flanks, but the distance was too great to make them out properly. Lastly, a series of tribal markings had been drawn across his face in bright yellow war paint as he looked gravely down at them.
The air split with the screech of an eagle as a blur flew out of the treeline across the growing columns of soldiers and dropped between the two Equestrians. It was a male Gryphon, large in comparison to the two Ponies, but small for the average of Gryphon warriors the commander had seen. He was clad in leather across his back and his legs, with a leather jerkin on his chest beneath several plates of polished steel. He wore a pair of slim pauldrons with no distinctive etchings or designs. A mercenary, then, what the Gryphons called clanless. His black fur and feather pelt was covered with scars, where the Minotaur could see it, and even his beak had a crack on the right side. He seemed to be carrying two long swords and a third stranger sword at his side. The commander had never seen the like.
As the minotaur watched, the Gryphon reached behind himself and unclasped something all too familiar, the Gryphon race’s famous compound bow. This one was made of dark wood, from what he could tell. Even with the bow’s prodigious range, the Minotaur had little care as the Gryphon nocked an arrow and drew back. After all, a Gryphon being able to hit a target at more than a mile away was clearly ridi–.
Grif smirked to himself as the Minotaur fell with an arrow freshly placed between his eyes. “Oh, did I just accidentally a war? My bad,” he chuckled. “Archers, nock and take aim!” he shouted, throwing up a sign with his talons. Even before Vital began translating, the commanders recognized the hand sign and shouted his orders. Grif watched the Minotaurs running to get prepared for battle as their chain of command attempted to sort itself out. Grif dropped his talons, and the Zebras behind him released their volley. The sky above the Minotaur camp darkened as the deadly shafts filled the sky. The war had truly begun.
Vital Spark lunged silently in the dark as he worked with his staff to get a better feel for its balance. Meanwhile, his hunga munga and rungu both hovered and struck in varying patterns, waving and darting. The Unicorn’s gaze was focused, but his brow twitched occasionally from the depth of his concentration as he worked to incorporate the three weapons into a unified style. After a few more attempts, he let out an explosive breath, lowering the two weapons gently to the ground, then sitting down on his haunches to look up at the stars. They had managed to clear out enough camps to not have to worry so much about a counterattack, and the Longhorns had been willing to work with the shamans to mold the earth into proper barriers to offer another layer of protection in the event of an assault.
“So, are you going to sit there in the shadows all night, Grif, or are you going to join me?” Vital asked.
“When did you notice I was here?” Grif asked as he walked closer.
“A while ago. You smell like the wind,” Vital said with a shrug, “and not the ones you usually get here in the savannah. That, and your element is the opposite to earth. It’s only natural that I’d feel your presence, when it interacts with the ground near me.”
“Fair enough, I suppose. How are our stores with everything we’ve taken from the others?”
“Decent. We found some herbs not known in our region. The horticulturalists are examining them now to see what properties they might have.”
“One more camp between us and the wall. After that, the fun begins,” Grif chuckled. “You rationed that Minotaur ale we found, right?”
“Grif, you do remember how much I hate drinking, right?”
“Doesn’t mean they do,” Grif said, gesturing in the direction of the camp.
“I let Fjüra decide how best to deal with it. She knows how to keep the bulls from turning into angry drunks.”
“And the Zebras’ share?”
“Admittedly, I actually didn’t think of that. None of the Zebras I’ve worked with have ever drank any alcohol, at least not that I’ve seen.”
“Doesn’t mean they don’t drink. It just means that you never saw it,” Grif chuckled. “It’s good for soldiers; helps them drink off the memory of what they had to do.”
“Then why don’t you usually drink?”
“I dislike the taste of alcohol,” Grif shrugged. “But hey, the good book says a glass of wine helps the stomach,” Grif winked. “Just keep an eye on them and make sure they don’t visit the taps too much. It’ll all work out.”
“You know, if I hadn’t grown so much in my time here, I’d probably rise to that bait and start a whole debate with you over that topic.” Vital chuckled as a couple of tears pattered onto the dirt. “You know, after all this time, I still miss that book. Or maybe it’s just the memories associated with it that are so precious to me.” He sighed. “Regardless, it’s been quite the adventure.” He smiled then. “So, since you’re here, anyways, I’m curious. How did you manage to channel the spiritual energy into those blade attacks? I figured it might benefit us both to exchange notes on applications.”
“When we were back on earth, I picked up a few books on every subject I could think of that might come in handy. I mean, who knows, it might have practical application here, right? I wanted to find something that wasn’t magic or thaumaturgy to rely on, just in case I needed to. I stumbled along at it for a while, before Zecora found me, and she started helping me learn to draw it out and use it. I still have trouble doing it without repressing my magic field, but I’m getting there.”
I guess I got lucky there. With my amnesia, I wasn’t nearly so reliant on my magic, so I was able to learn how to reach it faster. It’s not so much a matter of repressing your field as it is being able to connect to nature as an extension of your spirit. For example, my spirit was originally more attuned to air and water, just as my magic was. You probably should have focused on extending your spirit into that part of your nature first. Then you’d be able to work on spreading to the other aspects of nature that apply to your spirit.”
“I started on finding my core,” Grif shrugged.
“Good. Now, instead of fighting with the aspects of your magic, work with them. They can be a natural tuning rod, when it comes to interacting with the spirits of the elements, kind of like what happens when you talk to the Winds.”
“But it’s physical energy. Isn’t that an entirely different entity?”
“Did you know that in certain theologies on Earth, the soul is actually the combination of the spirit and body together? If you want the greater mastery or whole of the spiritual arts, you need to learn to use the two in harmony, the physical holding hands with the spiritual to create the whole. Do that, and I think you may find it far easier to communicate with your gods and their children.” He raised a glowing blue hoof as the long grass stretched up from the ground to follow it. “Case in point. Rather than force the growth with magic, I asked them to grow to help me prove my point, from spirit to spirit.”
“That's okay, if your walking the path of a monk,” Grif chuckled as he slipped on his ring and concentrated. White flames sparked in his hand. “But I need the imbalance to make my energy destructive.” He tossed the fire a few feet away. It landed on the ground and scorched it, before the flames vanished.
“Oh, spiritual combustion. I never did get to try that. Zecora wanted me to focus more on the constructive aspects, rather than the destructive. Granted, that has come in handy here, and I’ve been able to unlock limits in my body as a result.” He suddenly was standing on Grif’s other side. There was no flash or sign of magic. “Like increased speed and strength. In a way, it’s very much like chi.”
“Yes. Well, in order to focus it destructively, you need to force it through magic, rather then weave it in with it. That’s not easy, and it takes time to get right.”
“Isn’t that more exhausting, though? You’re basically using the innate spark of your spirit to enact a change all on your own.”
“You can’t harmonize an imbalance. And according to Zecora, harmonized ki won’t be useful as a weapon.”
“So, what do you do to make up for the difference?”
“Anger,” Grif shrugged. “It’s all tied to strong emotions, and I have a lot of anger to use.”
“Ah. In that case, that explains why she never taught it to me. I didn’t exactly have much to be that angry about, until the war started.”
“You also aren't much of a warrior,” Grif noted. “No offense.”
“Some taken,” Vital shrugged. “But compared to the rest of you guys, yeah, that’s true. The extension of my training has namely been the sessions with the Rohirrim and what I received here in the traditional weapons of the tribes.”
“There’s no shame in it. The path of the warrior was chosen for us. You get to choose your own. Never be ashamed of that.”
“You do realize I’ll at least have to become a competent battle mage, or else my future wife and my teacher both will tan my hide, right? More so the second than the first.” Vital chuckled ruefully. “I guess that’s the price you pay, when you’ve got powerful friends and even more powerful marefriends.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean people always expect you to fight. It just means you can,” Grif chuckled. “Be honest. If you didn’t have a stake in this war, would you be happy about this?”
“I’m still not happy about it, Grif. War is ugly. We both know that. It’s when I stop feeling bad about a war that I’ll know I’m in trouble.”
“Yes, but I’m asking if you wouldn’t have asked about leaving, if we didn’t have a reason, like, say we got dropped here randomly?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” Vital sighed. “On the one hand, I would want to avoid the conflict, if possible, especially since there would be the potential of leaving a footprint where we shouldn’t. On the other, though, watching people go off to die like that over something like this just wouldn't sit right with me either.”
“Maybe you’re getting there, after all,” Grif chuckled. “You’re starting to understand, at least.”
“The time travelling part or the need to act?” Vital asked with a wry smile.
“The need to act. Contrary to how it might look, Hammer Strike and I don’t do this because we enjoy it. We do it, because someone has to, and we have the power to do it and save lives.”
“In other words, you’re like The Guardian. The lives you save are important, but the number that really matters to you is the ones you couldn’t help in time.”
Grif nodded. “Remember, no matter how many battles you face, if someone asks you how many we lost, there is only one acceptable answer.”
“Too many,” Vital agreed.
“Anyway, you should return to your training, and get to bed soon.”
“Care to join me for a spar? I’ve been meaning to look for a challenge, and Bayek is busy with some of the other recruits.” A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips. “Besides, I’ve missed getting knocked around by you.”
Grif gave a chuckle as he unsheathed a stiletto. “All right, let’s see if they managed to teach you something.”
Pensword woke with a start. His dreams had become plagued by nightmares. On the plus side, the Minotaurs appeared to have shown at least a certain amount of courtesy. they had replaced all the furniture with cushions laid over the stones to ease his body against and help hasten the recovery. That had done a great deal to help silence those annoying doubts and fears, too. A blank stone slab and smaller stone chair had replaced the table, and several pillows had been stacked on the chair to help his ascent. The only thing that wasn’t stone now, aside from the cushions, was his bed.
The days were growing hotter, making the lack of circulation in his bedroom a far greater disadvantage. To compensate, a greater number of windows had been added to the higher reaches of the main viewing room, making it more preferable for daily activities as well as sleeping. Whether this was a deliberate ploy or a simple courtesy, Pensword wasn’t certain.
His ears swiveled casually at the raucous laughter outside. It had taken several days, before they were willing to let him keep the muzzle off, and his mealtimes had been carefully monitored to ensure he didn’t try anything, while they removed and replaced the offensive device.
After noticing how sick the Pegasus had become from eating solid foods, they switched to a juice diet. The liquid sat more easily in Pensword’s stomach, and helped provide the nutrition he required. A few more days, and, hopefully, he would be able to return to something more solid again.
The distinct lack of any sign of opposition or utterance left the guards more at ease with their suddenly compliant prisoner, and the Pegasus’ sudden apathy and lethargy left him with a much smaller audience than he normally would have drawn. He was sick. That much was evident. But it wasn’t just his body’s attempts to mend itself that churned his stomach. Anger burned hot and red, spoiling his appetite. They were laughing at his expense. They thought they had broken him, and for all he knew, may have been trying to destroy his mind from the very start. That did not sit well with the commander. Not at all.
Pensword growled in frustration as that annoying tingle returned to his wings, a sign of the dreaded itch that was perhaps more torturous than even being imprisoned for months. While this was a good sign of mending and feather growth, it still left the Pegasus less than amenable.
The guards had given him back his pens and inkwell, but that had done little to abate the anger the Pegasus felt. His own feathers. They had taken his feathers, cleaned them, and then returned them with a sharpened nub to write. Yet another insult he would make sure to pay back, when his time came.
For now, however, Pensword knew he only had one option. He would wait. He would watch. He would listen.
And then he would plan.
‘They will pay,’ Pensword thought to himself. ‘Oh, yes. They will pay.’
“All right, you two,” Vital Spark began, “we’ve called the both of you here, after much counsel, observation, recommendation, and deliberation.” He looked to a tall bull with a dark red coat of fur and creamy white horns. A massive lochabre ax hung from his back. “Cast Iron Bulwark, your defensive skills have earned you quite the reputation among your peers, making you one of the most balanced among the warriors of your tribe in regards to a fighting style. An ability to shift from offensive to defensive at a moment’s notice is a vital attribute to hone in the event of an unexpected change in an opponent’s strategy. Given the nature of the mission you are about to embark upon, those skills will prove incredibly useful.”
The Unicorn turned to look at the Zebra mare standing by the red Minotaur. “Mpiga, your skills as a diviner have been useful in determining the points of interest to attack and in evading enemy patrols. However, Zecora has informed me you also have been learning to utilize certain shaman arts as well to bolster your talents. On top of this, you have proven most adept in the arts of healing and swift to learn any other new skills that we deem necessary for you to learn. This is why we have determined you would be a suitable partner for this mission.”
Vital narrowed his gaze as he looked to both soldiers. “It is up to the pair of you to sneak past the enemy camps, while we distract them. Once you have succeeded, you are to use your combined skills to locate a hidden cave. Within, you will find instructions on how to lower the wall once and for all, and more importantly, have the chance to recruit seven incredibly powerful allies to our cause. You are both to treat them with respect. They are closely related to the Earth Mother and do not take kindly to impertinence.” He cleared his throat. “The rate of successful battles and overall performance during this war could hang on how well you execute this mission. As such, failure cannot be an option. Do you understand?”
Both creatures nodded.
“Good. Grif has some words of advice for you. Make sure you listen to them carefully. Do so, and you will probably return in one piece. Don’t, and it’s likely you may not. I believe we all would prefer the first option.” He raised his hoof and ceded the floor to the Gryphon as he backed away. “Grif.”
“I suppose it goes without saying that if something goes wrong, we won’t be aware, until hours after,” Grif began, “which means that we can’t offer you aid, and we likely can’t save you. I don’t say this lightly, but most of our lives depend on you accomplishing this task. It is worth more than your life to fail. Remember that.”
Cast Iron let out a heavy grunt as he nodded his affirmation. Mpiga offered a rigid salute as two bags were levitated to the warriors.
“I’ve enchanted these bags with a spell that will allow them to be larger on the inside. They won’t hold a hut’s worth of materials, like some of the more skilled enchanters have achieved, but they should prove satisfactory for your various needs. Healing herbs, emergency weapons, and other such materials that are suitable to your respective talents are there in abundance. Make sure to make good use of them, should the need arise. The two of you will be relying on one another to succeed in this task, so make sure that you work as a team.
This is not a race, not a competition, and no rush for glory. If you fail to work together, then we all lose, and that is something we cannot afford to allow. Assuming all goes well, the two of you will not only be warriors on a mission, but the representatives of your very race and culture standing to be judged. That judgement must be in our favor. If it is not, there will be … complications of the sort that we are not currently equipped to deal with. Maintain the relationship the pair of you have developed through this war and there shouldn’t be any problems. In short, and forgive me for sounding so stereotypically Equestrian here, be friends. Prove your harmony. The rest will work itself out.”
“Anything else?” Cast Iron rumbled.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Vital said.
“And when will the attack commence?” Mpiga asked. Unlike her fellows, her mane had been completely shaved down to match her head fur, making it look, for all intents and purposes, like she was bald.
“Nightfall,” Hammer Strike replied.
Mpiga nodded. “Logical. With permission, the two of us will withdraw to prepare and coordinate our strategies.”
Vital Spark nodded. “You may go. We have our own strategies to prepare in the meantime.”
The cool night savannah breeze blew gently over the longrass as bulls trundled through the villages the Zebras had built. Torches interspersed through the compounds lit up the night, providing the illumination necessary to navigate the avenues therein. In the time the original occupants had been gone, the Minotaurs had increased the fortifications, adding walled barriers accentuated by thick stakes. A heavy set of gates had been installed along this new makeshift barricade to serve as one of the only places of entry along the passage. Warriors patrolled the edges along the walls, peering through carefully slitted portions that ensured no projectiles would pass through, while still granting a proper view of what lay beyond.
Whatever was to come, these warriors were ready. Which is why they were more than a little surprised at the sudden detonations that went off in the sky above their heads. Bright shades of blue, white, red, green, and yellow popped and whistled loudly, illuminating the grounds like so many bolts of lightning, before fading off into the darkness. Then came the drums. The rhythm thrummed through the air and the earth, an ominous portent. These were not the familiar steady drums the Minotaurs had come to understand in the spread of their messages. These were lively and filled with determination.
Another flash blazed with a detonation, and shadows gathered on the edge of sight. Then came another as the shades doubled, then another, and another as the numbers continued to swell, spreading across the grasslands. The compound came alive in a matter of seconds as the bulls bellowed their orders and warriors took up their positions. The sound of stampeding hooves alerted them to the rapid rush of warriors peeling back from the escarpment.
Vital Spark couldn’t help but smile as he launched off another volley of magical fireworks into the air. “You know, I never thought Trixie’s spell would actually come in handy in a war like this.” He chuckled. “Just wait till I tell her.” He looked back over to the Earth Pony, who stood in the midst of a pool of shadow, manipulating the decoys they’d spread to bolster their numbers. “You holding up okay, Hammer Strike?” he asked.
“Manipulating shadows is easier than dealing with time,” Hammer Strike replied, before muttering a soft, “not you,” then rolling his eyes.
“Grif, are we ready for the first volley, or did you want to halloo a challenge with that horn of yours first?” Vital asked.
“I think fast and deadly should be our goals right now.” Grif shook his head. “Have the archers spread out and fire two volleys in rapid succession. Regular arrows, then fire arrows.”
“Any other orders to relay, while I’m at it?”
“I want you to have several squads sneak around to the other side of camp, without being seen. No one lives. No witnesses. When they try to flee, they’re to be torn apart, got it?”
Vital sighed. “I’ll see to it.”
It was a simple thing for Vital Spark to supply the main troops with the extra fireworks he’d prepared. A spark to activate the runes would be all it took. He gave a grim nod of understanding to his friends, then swallowed and strode back to his fellow troops. Each had been decked out in camouflage to ensure they could blend in with the shadows. As an added effect, Vital Spark had sketched out certain runes that they would need to include in their designs to help silence their hoofsteps and ensure they were able to block perception. It only worked on lesser minds, but since the Minotaurs were worked up and focused on the battle brewing by the main camp, they would likely be easily diverted.
“Mpiga, Bulwark, are you ready?” he asked the pair.
The two nodded quietly.
“Then let’s move out.”
True to the plan, the team departed between flashes, snaking through the longrass as silently as they could manage. The walls and new fortifications were intimidating, though not entirely insurmountable. Thanks to the initial volley of flaming arrows, several Minotaurs were already rushing to the point of impact to ensure the flames couldn’t spread too much farther. After using their shamanistic arts to detect any potential foes nearby, the Zebra troops gave their all-clear. Vital nodded.
“Bulwark, if you would do us the honors?” the Unicorn asked.
The bull didn’t need any more prodding. One heavy blow was all it took to send cracks running throughout the structure. Vital Spark finished the job quickly with an icy blast to break the earth apart. From there, it was a simple matter to remove the stakes and make their way past the barrier.
“All right. You all know your orders. It’s our job to make sure no stragglers escape and to make it look like that’s our only purpose back here, got it?” Vital looked to their two agents. “You two need to get to the escarpment as fast as possible. Find the entrance, get to the chamber, and do whatever you have to to ensure we get that help. Remember, innocent lives are hanging in the balance on both sides. Get control of that escarpment, no matter what it takes.”
The two units nodded and broke for the edifice. Then Vital Spark turned to his fellows.
“All right. Let’s figure out where our big friends are holed up. From there, we’ll form a proper perimeter to prevent any messengers from returning to the escarpment. Let’s move out.”
Grif lashed out with his tail in a scorpion-like stab, impaling a Minotaur through the chest with his tailblade as he decapitated another with a flick of his sword. So far, the battle was going as planned. Between the panic of the fire and the suddenness of the strike, the enemy was having a difficult time getting organized. With any luck, Vital Spark and the holdouts at the back of the camp would end up with very little to do.
Hammer Strike, for his part, was more focused on the enemy as bull after bull was reduced to a random association of body parts, courtesy of Derflinger passing through them. The blade, for its part, was laughing as it flung insults and harsh language at all who passed by it’s dervish of death.
“We need to start picking up the pace,” Hammer Strike commented mostly to himself.
“Sorry, partner, but I can’t exactly go out and fight on my own,” Derflinger replied.
“Not exactly what I meant. I feel like this is taking longer than I wanted.”
Cast Iron Bulwark and Mpiga both looked up at the great passage that had opened above them. The descent had been swift and somewhat painful, when they hit bottom. Thanks to the Zebra’s divinations, they had been able to locate their point of entry. What her skills had not revealed was how that entry would surprise them with a slip-and-slide straight to the bottom. However, now a series of massive stalactites dripped down from above, filling the cavern with the echoes of the water’s fall.
“How is it that no one was able to sense this before?” Mpiga marveled.
Bulwark grunted and shrugged.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter, anyways, does it?”
This time, Bulwark nodded, then snorted and pointed down the path.
“Yeah, I suppose it is time to get to work,” Mpiga agreed. She dusted herself off, then quickly checked over her satchel to ensure nothing had been broken. When everything had been accounted for, she strode forward with the bull striding beside her. “How much are you willing to wager that there’s a test designed for each of us?”
Bulwark snorted, sputtered out his lips, then shook his head violently.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t take that bet ether,” Mpiga agreed. “Still, if this cavern is under the escarpment, then I wonder how it’s stood for so long.”
Bulwark stomped his hoof and a chunk of earth leaped up into his hand as he looked meaningfully at Mpiga.
“Force of will?”
Bulwark nodded.
“That would take an awful lot of it.” She chuckled. “Then again, the earth itself was supposed to be what did this, so why wouldn’t its will be up to the task?”
Bulwark nodded again, then smirked.
“Cheeky,” Mpiga returned with the same smirk.
Bulwark just let his tail “accidentally” brush her face as they walked past, still maintaining that teasing smirk.
Mpiga narrowed her eyes at the bull. “Careful there. You may bite off more than you can chew,” she said as she followed after.
Bulwark chuckled.
At last, they came to the far end of the cavern, where a pair of plinths sat off on either side of a portion of the wall. Mineralization formed two sets of irregular outlines that looked almost like a frame; one that stretched up into the shadows above their heads and was lost.
“So, how much are you willing to bet those are for us?” Mpiga asked as she motioned towards the plinths with a jerk of her head.
Bulwark just stepped up and clopped onto the surface, before turning to look questioningly at Mpiga.
“Yes, yes. I’m coming,” she said, rolling her eyes, before joining her companion on the parallel surface. The moment she found her footing, both plinths shuddered and the stone ground as the walls next to the pair receded into curved tubular openings lined with veins of crystal and various sigils unfamiliar to the pair, including what appeared to be an upside down horseshoe. A few crunches later, the stone receded, leaving indentations on the platform and in the new walls for the two adventurers’ hooves and hands.
The instructions were far too obvious to ignore. The two companions looked to each other, then approached the divets, being careful to insert their hooves in exactly the right places, followed by forehooves and hands as Mpiga reared up to lean into the alcove. They waited there for some time.
Nothing happened.
They pushed.
Nothing happened.
They tried a series of numeric and rhythmic combinations: tapping, clopping, and otherwise.
Still, nothing happened.
Bulwark tossed his head and lowed in frustration.
“I know. I feel the same.”
Bulwark snorted as his tail lashed behind him.
“Well, I do have one idea we haven’t tried yet.”
Bulwark quirked an eyebrow.
Mpiga took a deep breath, then closed her eyes as a blue glow began to surround her hooves. Almost immediately, the light began to flow along the crystal pathways. She smiled cheekily at her companion. “See? I knew there was a reason you needed me.”
Bulwark rolled his eyes as the fur at his wrists ignited in an aura that writhed like flames, before channeling down his hands and into the surface of the panel on his side.
“Showoff.”
Bulwark just smirked as the pair channeled their energies through the crystal veins together.
Navy blue washed over the left side of the cave, illuminating the walls and stalactites of the cave, while a radiant ruby-red filled in on the right, channeling through glyphs and runes that looked almost like the magical channels of the Crystal Empire. High at the top of the great wall, a massive orb awaited, pulling in the colors from both sides in the minutest channels, before the pair finally touched, and the orb ground loudly as it slowly began to turn. Faster and faster it went, gaining greater speed as the two lights ran together, until they became a blur, and that blur merged into a radiant purple. A pinprick of white light began to pulse in the center of the stone, growing larger with each second as a myriad of colors pulsed within, and the grating turned into an almost musical hum.
Quite suddenly, the orb stopped turning, and a loud bell-like tone rang out in a deep gong as that white light surged out of the stone to fill the etchings throughout the cave with a veritable rainbow lightshow. The two partners marvelled at the sight, before a beam of white light shot down out from the stone, dividing up the portal and causing it to slowly grind open as the two sides retracted into the wall, like the bay doors of a hangar.
“Shall we?” Mpiga asked as the doors finally ended their retraction with a loud boom.
Bulwark nodded and pulled his lochabre out from its resting place on his back, before taking the lead.
Vital Spark looked back at the pillar of solar fire towering behind as he and his team slowly advanced on the enemy encampment. Their bodies crept skillfully along the ground to peer at the battle. True to the plan, the few defenders left from the original invasion force had moved to engage with Hammer Strike and the others. The threat of a large invading force left their rear completely unguarded.
“Remember to keep an eye out for any signs of a messenger or runner. They can’t get over the escarpment, but if they can send a message to their allies, they will. Kill them, before they get that chance.”
The Zebras nodded as they prepared their bows and nocked their arrows. If any of the combatants did try to flea, they would be in for a very nasty surprise.
The second chamber was a complete contrast to its sibling. Layer upon layer of crystal rose in tiers, refracting light to spread throughout. The narrow passage carried through as their distorted reflections flowed among the lights and disappeared in the aurora. At last, the pair arrived in a great atrium, standing on a circular balcony.
In due course, a series of pulsing circular lights appeared before them, thrumming within the crystals. A deep rich purple lay at the center, flanked on either side by vibrant greens. Gold sat farther to the left and a vivid rainbow to the right. A sapphire-blue pulsed on the farthest left with red to compliment it on the farthest right, completing the spectrum.
A woman’s voice, rang rich and vibrant through the crystal as the purple light flickered.
“Long ago, in the time immemorial, seven mighty forces were born from the great mother. Treasured and beloved, they were raised to use their power justly, and so they did. They scoured the lands in search of those who could use their gifts and guidance, a tall task, indeed, given that many had already found a power to serve and learn from. In time, the seven found what they sought, and soon had adopted children of their own to raise and nurture into a golden age. However, as all things are in mortality, it was not to last.
“The great follies of greed, avarice, pride, arrogance, and ambition reared their ugly heads, and the seven found themselves betrayed, the very gifts they had granted their children used in pairing with perverted magic and pieces imbued with the forces’ essence to perform an unspeakable act. The seven’s judgement was swift, and their curse strong as they left their children to fend for themselves, once more, for these betrayers had lost the right to be called by such a beloved name.
“Torn with grief at the suffering caused and the loss of life that would surely follow, the seven traveled far, to a land where the betrayers could not give chase. There, they stayed and mourned, watching the world around them with neither joy nor peace. Their tears flowed unending, creating a lake of salt and brine as wide as the plains beyond.
“In due course, one of the four-legs climbed to the highest peak by this solitary lake, in search of enlightenment. Long did this one wait, pondering in silence, living off what little the land would offer. All was bitter, and yet he chose to endure. The powers were perturbed, but not so much as to pull them from their grief. For what is time to that which is immortal? The creature would leave, in due course, as all such creatures must.
“And so it remained, until the creature had begun to wizen. At last, the creature turned and looked upon the tears of the seven, and he spoke. ‘Why do you weep, oh great ones?’ he asked. ‘Your mourning has touched the very rocks and trees, themselves. What could have caused such terrible pain?’
“The powers remained silent, unwilling to delve into a wound still so very tender. This did not prove amenable to the four-leg, and so he set about meditating again. The winds carried the sighs of the mourners. The grass fed on tears. The ground was made hard by the staunch refusal to let go.
“And still the seeker listened. Still, the creature pondered. Still, the creature felt, until the day that his eyes were opened, for the land had learned the story long before he arrived. And now he had learned to listen to the land. He knew of the seven’s pain, and he felt it keenly, for their story was now his story. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’ he asked, ‘no means to heal your wound?’
“The wails of the seven reverberated to the vaults of the heavens, and their tears were as a torrent, flooding the basin where the four-leg had stayed. The creature would certainly have perished, as all mortal things do, were it not for the intervention of one who had also been watching. This one was impressed with the four-leg’s understanding, his ability to adapt, his capacity for growth. Here was a kindred spirit that wished only to ease suffering.
“In a matter of moments, the world was consumed with fire. The lake and its lands were no more. All that remained was the four-leg, his savior, and the seven. Chastisement was given, and a peace brokered. Indebted to the four-leg for so callously putting his life in danger, it was agreed, albeit reluctantly, that he would take what he had learned to teach his fellows, and the seven would watch over him and his own for so long as they would live upon the face of the land.
“For a time, peace reigned. The four-legs grew and developed, learning the gentler arts of the earth as the elder passed on his knowledge. In time, the elder left his people under the care of the seven, and they flourished, until war reared its ugly head.
“Anger and pride led the four-legs to battle the horned ones, and their conflict raged for an age. The seven watched and waited, for their new children had grown into a nation all their own, and needed to make their own choices. But when it became clear just how terrible the cost of battle had become for both sides, the seven made their choice. Pooling their collective wills, the seven rent the land and entered into slumber, forever dividing the warring peoples.
“The cause of this war was simple. Each believed themselves the true children of the land. Know ye, therefore, that this is a lie. Neither side is greater, nor race better. The fact that you have come united to find this chamber is proof of this, for neither one could make it alone. Therefore, we welcome you, Zebra and Minotaur alike. Welcome to the chamber of rest. I am Amethyst, the eldest of my siblings. These are my twin brothers, Emerald. The others are Topaz, Opal, Ruby, and Sapphire.”
Bulwark raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, shifting his stance to look skeptically at the lights.
“Did you really expect us to manifest physically before you? To do so would mean to destroy this cavern and you with it,” the golden light that was Topaz retorted with cool logic.
“We came here, because we need your help,” Mpiga said, quickly cutting to the point. “In your absence, the Minotaurs found a means to break through the wall you created and invade our home. There are those who objected to this invasion, and defected to join us in our defense, but the vast majority still follow their leader, a new chieftain bent on conquest.”
The rainbows flickered as the colors lashed around inside Opal’s sphere. “So, my nightmares came true, after all,” a gentle girlish voice said. “I had hoped this particular future wouldn’t come to pass. But even in the darkest hour, hope shines. Have the travellers come?”
“Opal, have you–”
“–Been hiding things–”
“–From us?” the twin Emeralds asked.
“She has,” Amethyst said, though she sounded more intrigued than upset.
“She stacked the deck,” Sapphire chortled in satin tones. “You sly minx.”
“At least it all turned out right in the end,” Ruby pulsed. The voice wavered between alto and tenor, leaving it difficult, if not outright impossible to determine a proper gender.
“The end is not yet, but it will come, if we take the proper course,” Opal counseled.
Mpiga cleared her throat. “If by travelers, you mean the Gryphon and Pony, then yes, they’ve come.”
“Has no attempt at peace been made?” Topaz asked. “Surely, Prometheus’ current avatar would be able to broker one.”
“Prometheus?” Mpiga asked, confused at the name.
“He wouldn’t–”
“–Be useful–”
“–Anyway,” the twins said.
“We sense–”
“–No honor–”
“–In this fight;–”
“–Only bloodlust,” they finished.
“One of the travelers told us we need to enlist your aid, not to get involved directly in the conflict, but to allow us and our forces passage into the Stampede Grounds. We march to put a stop to the conflict and to release one of the travelers’ companions, who was taken captive,” Mpiga continued. “Will you help us in this thing?”
The lights dimmed.
“Our family would not take kindly to such action,” Sapphire warned. “If these visitors are powerful and clever enough to defeat the other horned ones, and their fight leads to the far north….” Sapphire said.
“Would they perhaps listen to reason, if we were present to speak with them?” Ruby asked.
“That, I cannot see for certain. It is possible, however, if we can explain, before they are fully awake,” Opal said.
“You won’t have to help us fight the Minotaurs,” Mpiga promised. “We only wish safe passage, and justice is on our side.”
“We will consider your request, daughter,” Amethyst finally said. “We will call for you, when we have reached our decision.”
“How long, until then?”
The lights began to fade. “As long as it takes,” her voice echoed and receded into the crystal.
Mpiga swore as the cave darkened to a dim glow, just enough to see by, while a passage opened to the side along a new walkway.
Bulwark shrugged and walked toward the path.
Mpiga sighed. “Yeah, I guess we should give them the news. You get to tell them, though.”
The caves reverberated with Bulwark’s surprised bellow of protest.
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New chapter? Don't mind if I do.
Awesome as always.
Welp... Just seeing this made my day back into a good one!
Hammerstrike is going all Captain Bligh on the Minotaurs?
Pensword is being treated like the dancing Monkey. Ok for the amusement of onlookers, but once he starts out mathing them and flinging poo, then its into the cat carrier.
Intresting, isnt Bulwark an altered form of the term Bull Work, or Walk, which would be something taking, steering catle to auction, slaughter, and so capable of containing, resisting the onslaught of a full on stampede of crazed destructive bovines?
Intresting how the mere appearence of the Crystalines would lead to the loss of location. They must know of Hammerstrike, yet theres no mention, acknowledgement or fear of him. I wonder wonder if he will have any part in their creation at that point in the past?
9234760
I'm like ninety percent sure that Hammer Strike is the Elder they spoke of, and that he is also the alicorn of the forge, among other things. Boi has time travel, and doesn't give two shits.
9234760
Bulwark is another name for a wall or defensive fortification.
isn't pensword abule to manupilate dreams? so why havent he used that to his advatage if he qould.
9246841
Pensword is not able to manipulate dreams, he can only see those that passed away.
So that is why he hasn't done anything with the dreams.
If you might remember that most of the times when we have dream manipulation, It was caused by others bringing him along.
9247043
ah okej that exsplains it cause i remeber the part in the grifin ward that they used terror rising tactis agains there dreams so they barely slept so they just got slughtered laiter on.
9247794
Yep, and that was caused by the Dream Walkers of the Thestrals,
Very nice chapter. I'm really enjoying this arc. Something to fix though, the Italics didn't stop right about half way through the conversation with the 7 crystal spirits. Just something for when you get the time.