Case Twelve, Prologue: Grave Matters
The humidity hung over the sleeping city like an unwanted guest: the few ponies who were still awake at this time of night could taste it on their tongues with every breath. The bells of the City Hall clocktower rang out once, their peals echoing across the streets. Far to the north, away from the few lights that were still on, a single pony in an expensive suit, masticating quietly on a silverleaf cigarette, trotted up a pathway strewn with weeds and bordered by tall oak trees.
“No, I understand, Bruder,” Zugzwang sighed, trotting up to a waist-high iron gate. A chill wind ran down from the east, ruffling his mane. The smoke from his cigarette was pulled to one side by the wind as he lit up his horn, the only lights in that cloud-blanketed night. A blue key floated up to the padlock securing the rusty chain around the gate and inserted itself into the keyhole. With a simple click, the padlock snapped open and fell to the ground, the chain following with a rattle. Replacing the key beneath his suit, Zugzwang pushed the gate open: the decrepit hinges protested with a loud squeak as he passed through. As he passed through, he used his magic to replace the lock and chain: to be foiled because of a simple incongruity would be an embarrassment.
“Using your power so often was...reckless,” Zugzwang agreed as he started to slowly amble along the flattened grass, casting glances at the markers he passed. “We barely survived all of that.” He paused for a moment, then grinned in a vulpine manner, the faint glow of his cigarette casting his face into shifting shadows. “But then again, it was fun, wasn’t it?” he admitted. “And if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have gotten this.” He looked down at the jade jewelry that was now dangling around his neck. The fox bounced against his chest: as Zugzwang watched, a faint emerald light shimmered in the little stone creature’s eyes.
A moment later, Zugzwang’s grin transformed into a frown. “All right, all right,” he grumbled. “I’ll be more careful.” He was silent for a moment, looking around the wide, hilly field that he had entered, then started off down a gravel path. An owl screeched from somewhere within a shivering tree overhead and flew off into the darkness: far off to the north, a cannon burst of thunder rolled across the sky.
“No, I don’t want to lose you either,” he admitted as he started to climb a winding slope. “You are...my friend. You’ve always been with me, guiding me, helping me. I would not be alive were it not for you.” Another pause, then a low chuckle. “Yes, in every sense.”
He took a long drag on his fag as he reached the top of the hill and looked around, reorienting himself amidst the monuments that stuck out of the hill like jagged teeth. “Bruder, I am confident that this will work,” he stated plainly. “Did you not say yourself that I am the best host you have ever had, greater than even Stygian?” He snorted. “Surely you need not worry about my friends trying to ‘free me from your corruption.’ Nein, this is our path. Besides, where else are we to go? No one living will help us.”
He paused in front of his target and smirked. “So we must turn to the dead.” He studied the mausoleum before him with an admonishing tilt of the head, taking note of the swirling calligraphy inscribed into the doors and the silver and gold engravings etched into the stone, depicting the Reaper with his hooded cloak, scythe, and empty hourglass. “As ostentatious in death as you were in life, mein freund,” he sardonically commented, using the key to open the locked door. The mausoleum doors groaned into the night as they reluctantly parted.
“And now, we begin,” Zugzwang declared, undoing his tie and jacket and removing his clothes with his magic, neatly folding them and placing them into a plastic bag that he carefully placed to one side. His nude flesh was marked by swirling black and red runes, the wounds from a solid two weeks of work long healed.
A leather bag appeared in Zugzwang’s hooves and he pulled out several bags of salt, a box of candles, a small jar containing mercury, a trowel, chalk line, a plumb bob, string compass, and a pair of ancient, crumbling scrolls. He carefully unrolled the scrolls, studying the contents beneath the light of his horn.
Drawing the overlapping circles and runes into the ground took him almost an hour: ensuring that the thirteen candles were in just the right place took him another twenty minutes of work. Adding the salt and mercury was comparatively easier, though ensuring that the constantly writhing, squirming liquid remained where it was meant to be proved relatively daunting. But finally, he was ready. Zugzwang stood in the center of the largest circle, surrounded by five of the flickering candles: they shivered before him, as if cowed by his power, by the knowledge of what he was going to do.
Zugzwang stared at the scrolls for a moment, ensuring that he had the spell properly memorized, then closed his eyes, summoning his will. The words slithered out from his lips, syllables snaking into the air. The flames from the candles began to twist and flicker in unison, like choreographed dancers. The tips of the strangely dark fires reached into the air and twisted together like ropes, swirling around Zugzwang. He continued his low monotone, his own magic twirling into the air and joining into the dance.
The wind rushed in, first from the north, then the south, the west, and the east, buffeting the candle lights in a vain attempt to extinguish their flames, but the spell continued on. The wax of the candles melted at an accelerated rate, dripping into the channels of salt and mercury: the noxious liquid began to run along the channels, pulsing as though with a heartbeat. The tempo of Zugzwang’s chant increased: with every moment, the swirling tendrils of light and heat grew brighter and hotter, the liquid running faster and faster.
And finally, Zugzwang gave a shout, a single, blasphemous word that echoed through the graveyard, and the flames all went out at once, not even leaving any smoke behind. Breathing slowly and deeply, Zugzwang stood and carefully rubbed out the circle.
“Hmm,” he mused, staring into the open doorway before him. Lighting up his horn, he fired a beam of dark golden energy into the doorway, briefly lighting up Death as the spell passed him by.
From within, there came the shattering of ceramic, then a low moaning of the wind. A small tornado comprised of dark ashes rushed out of the doors, swirling and coalescing into solid forms. First, the bones were shaped, then muscles atop them: the body stretched and contorted within the whirlwind, jaw flapping as though trying to cry out.
Organs soon followed, then skin began to blanket itself over the entire frame. Hair sprouted unevenly, forming in randomly growing patches as the wind slowly died out. But finally, it was done.
Before Zugzwang stood a tall, portly blue unicorn. His gossamer tail and mane were in disarray, spilling over his face and down to the ground. He had a cutie mark of a silver statue of a pony rearing up on its hind legs. The figure stood before Zugzwang, silent and unmoving. He wasn’t even breathing.
Zugzwang slowly approached, musingly bringing a fresh cigarette to his lips and lighting it. He trotted around the figure, who remained statue-still, then approached his face, brushing some of the mane aside.
One silvery-blue eye stared back at him, with no emotion or soul behind the iris. Where the left eye should have been was merely a ragged hole. And upon closer inspection, Zugzwang noted that the left ear was missing, as well as a significant part of his left cheek, revealing an entire row of white teeth.
“Hmm. Looks like they didn’t collect all of your ashes,” Zugzwang mused. “But you’ll still do.” He stepped back and smiled. “Herr Silvertongue, will you obey?”
Charlie August Silvertongue stared back at him with his one dead eye, then nodded. Zugzwang’s smile widened and he slowly turned, looking over the field of graves before him. “Now, who else can we recruit…?”
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Damn... This gonna be good
Shiit.
Bad pun is good pun. I shall not pun-ish you for this. By and by, why is this marked 'on hiatus'?
10051988
Thanks for reminding me!
10051993
Oh, I was worried for a moment there. Like something had happened.
Very jice beginning...
This can be... tricky to win.
Great now this assholes back.
Oh... Oh I see. Oh no...
The moment you started describing him I knew it was going to be Silvertongue, but I'm still excited regardless. Here we go.
Welp.
I think I know who the "Bruder" is.