Slingers

by Enter Madness

Prophecy/Birth of a Lunatic

Rimbold leaned over the forge, sweat dripping off his face. In his right claw he held a hammer of pure silver, a seamless outer skin not broken by scratches or mars, despite it being the only hammer he ever used. He brought it down onto the anvil, striking the red hot iron bar and shaping it to his will. Strike after strike fell, filling the air with the song of the forge, until the iron had taken the shape of a blade. He tapped the edges, hammering them to be razor sharp. The blacksmith was lost in his own world, oblivious to the intense heat of the forge. He was chanting under his breath, the words seeming to permeate their air with their presence, working their way down to the iron, which devoured them hungrily.

He doused the glowing metal in a barrel of cool water and placed it back into the forge before getting a rag and wiping the sweat from his brow. Forging was hard work, magic forging doubly so. The chants that came from his beak strengthened the metal beyond normal forges, tempering the blade so that it wouldn’t break, wouldn’t yield, and wouldn’t dull. It was a technique Peirce had taught him, and it made Rimbold renowned as one of the greatest blacksmiths who had ever lived, griffon or otherwise. Rimbold sighed and leaned against the wall, gazing at his silver hammer and thinking of his friend. The hammer was the result of another of Peirce’s “quests.” Rimbold never understood why Peirce wasn't interested in the things he insisted they find.

“Eh, never really wanted it anyway,” Peirce had said when Rimbold had tried to give him the hammer. Peirce had flashed him his lopsided grin. “Getting it’s half the fun.”

The rest of the room was dark save for the forge, which cast dancing shadows with its dim light. Rimbold reached over to squeeze the bellows and the hammer changed. It seemed to melt, but it didn’t pool on the ground. Instead, the now-liquid formed to his claw and flowed up his arm, forming back into a solid mass as a gauntlet that covered from his elbow to his claw. He marveled at the sight; Quicksilver never seemed to lose its novelty.

Rimbold was squeezing the bellows when he felt the air change. He probably wouldn’t have felt it at all if he hadn’t been expecting it. There was now another griffon in his house, just like Peirce had told him there would be. Being friends with a prophet had certain advantages.

The assassin entered the room quietly, almost silently, and Rimbold pretended not to notice. The assassin had rubber tips on his claws to reduce the noise he made.

At least they didn’t send am amateur this time.

The griffon crept around the edge of the room, working himself into a position behind the blacksmith. He moved like the shadow of death, but Rimbold had come face-to-face with that shadow too amny times to be intimidated by it. When the assassin was just behind Rimbold and had drawn a dagger, the master of Quicksilver spoke.

“Nice try.”

The assassin’s surprise at the words stunned him for only a moment, but it was enough. Rimbold spun around and the Quicksilver changed form, flowing down and forming a club at the over its master’s claw. The mass struck the would-be assassin in the side of the head with a crack, sending him sliding across the floor. Rimbold didn’t know whether he was unconscious or dead, nor did he care. Rimbold heard a whistle in the air and barely ducked the knives that embedded themselves in the wall where his head had been a moment before.

Two? The bastard didn’t say there would be two.

But that was the problem with prophecy. You could never be sure, could you? Peirce could tell him the name of the blacksmith who makes the dagger that kills him, but not when or where it will be used. He could tell that an attempt would be made on his life that night, but not why, or even how many assassins there would be.

Rimbold looked to the doorway and saw the outline of another griffon. Soon, two more knives were whistling through the air with deadly accuracy. Rimbold lifted his arm and the Quicksilver formed into a metallic disk, the knives clattering uselessly to the ground against his shield. He lunged forward, arm outstretched, and the Quicksilver reached with him. It extended past his arm in the shape of his claw and seized the killer’s head, yanking it down and smashing it into the ground. The metallic artifact returned to its master and formed back into a gauntlet.

Rimbold listened carefully for any other intruders and, hearing none, searched his house. He lit oil lamps as he went, looking in every nook and cranny for any unwanted visitors. As he passed his back door, he started at the sound of knocking. He prepared his weapon and flung the door open, rearing back to strike whatever had knocked, but froze when he recognized the face.

“Are you going to put that down?” Peirce asked.

“You didn’t say there would be two.”

“There weren’t. There were four.” Peirce stepped aside, lending his uninformed friend a view of two more bodies lying face down in his back yard with no discernible cause of death. Rimbold sighed.

“Bring them inside,” he said.

“Gee, you’re welcome.”

Rimbold ignored the prophet and used the Quicksilver to drag one of the bodies inside. Peirce followed his example, albeit with a bit more difficulty. They brought the dead griffons into the forge and put them in a pile with the two Rimbold had taken care of.

“Well, what now?” Peirce asked.

“You tell me, you’re the prophet.”

Peirce smiled his little smile at Rimbold, a smile that said, “I know more than you, and I know that I know more than you.” Rimbold hated that smile.

“I’ll tell you what next. We’re going to Equestria.”

“No, seriously, what next.”

“I am serious. I had a vision.” Rimbold quieted his objections. When Peirce used his gift on purpose, the results were always muddy and unclear, like about the assassination tonight, and they were always subject to change. Even the slightest difference from the path things were on now could have wildly unstable consequences. But when the seer’s gift used him, gave him a vision, rather than him demanding one from it, it was clearer. Rimbold sighed in defeat; no matter what he did, Peirce knew that he would end up coming with him. He always did.

“Why would I go with you to Equestria?” At least Rimbold could pretend like he was still thinking about it.

“Not ‘would.’ Will. You will go with me because the fate of a kingdom and possibly even the entire world depend on it. Also, you’ll live longer. If you stay here, the assassination attempts will only get more frequent, and you know you can’t hold out forever. Plus, it’ll be fun!”

“Right. Fun. Even if I agreed to go with you, which I haven’t, we can’t get to Equestria. The king’s afraid of dissenters; he won’t allow anyone, pony or griffon, to cross the border. Word is a war is on the way.”

“Wonder whose word that was. Oh yeah, mine.”

“Shut up. Can you tell me why these killers are after me?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Peirce!”

“Fine, I can try. But I expect an answer by the time I’m done. And I expect that answer to be ‘yes.’”

Peirce walked over to the pile of bodies. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened them again his pupils were massive, taking up almost his entire eye. He was using his Sight to examine the assassin’s last few hours. Rimbold lay down, idly passing the Quicksilver from claw to claw while Peirce did his thing. The prophet wasn’t as adept at this portion of his gift, especially when the subject was dead. After a few minutes, the seer returned to his friend with a solemn look and a shake of the head.

“Sorry Rimbold, the Bitch won’t help me tonight.” The Bitch was what Peirce called his gift when it wasn’t cooperating. Rimbold patted him on the shoulder.

“It’s alright, my friend. So, why are we going to Equestria?”

“So you’ll come then?”

“You did say it would be fun?”

“And dangerous,” Peirce said.

“One in the same, my friend. Of course I’ll come with you, but why are we going?”

“We have to see a unicorn. He is young, and his name is Brightly.”

“And?”

“That’s it.”

“What does he look like?”

“I don’t know.” Peirce was smiling. He knew his attitude irritated Rimbold.

“What do we tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“How will we get there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything you do know?”

“Nothing of consequence.”

Rimbold sighed. “When do we leave?”

Peirce’s smile grew wider. “Now.”

“Help me take care of these bodies first.”

The two griffons took the dead assassins and shoved them one-by-one into the forge. Rimbold squeezed the bellows and soon the room was full of the smell of burning flesh.

Once they had finished their unpleasant business, the two friends walked out into the night. Rimbold stopped and looked back at the small building that had served as his home for the last decade, wondering if it was the last time he would ever see it.

“What is it?” Peirce asked.

“Nothing. Come on, we’ve got a unicorn to find.”

(*)

Bloodflow used his telekinesis to take the knife from the intruder’s saddlebags. It was bronze, with a curved blade that glinted in the ethereal light of the spell. The unicorn’s heart started to race.

This is it. I’m so close!

He held the dagger blade down over the helpless pegasus struggling on the pedestal in front of him. Then he looked at his two servants, chanting lyrics and pouring their power into the mare. It was a shame to waste such a beautiful pony, and even more so to sacrifice such loyal servants, but Bloodflow didn’t care. Soon, his ambition would pay off, and Equestria would be his.

He took a moment to admire the dagger. It was inlaid with runes that were now glowing in the presence of such powerful magic. Bloodflow hadn’t believed his luck when he had stumbled across the hapless banker with access to the artifact. Cornelius Bit had proved an invaluable, if unwilling, pawn. To think, all this time the last piece of the puzzle was sitting in a bank vault in such a backwater little town.

Bloodflow snapped his thoughts back to reality. He gripped the leather-bound handle of the dagger with his magic and forced it downward, easily breaking the flesh of his victim. Then, a blinding light exploded outward. Bloodflow didn’t turn away; the light was glorious. His mind was filled with delicious agony as the mare and his two servants broke apart, their essence’s breaking down into pure magic and rushing into his horn, like fine dust into a vacuum cleaner. He felt their power, their energy, their very life flowing into him, their thoughts, their feelings, their experiences, their memories, all becoming a part of who he was, but still separate from him. It was like each of the other beings were in cubicles, walled off from his own mind but still accessible. He felt his magic reserves growing exponentially as the two unicorn’s power merged with his own.

Then it was over. The searing, burning pain that Bloodflow had felt moments before retreated. He marveled at his new mind, how the other voices seemed to speak of their own volition. He could fell his own elation, mixed with the confusion and delight of his servants and the utter horror and incomprehension of the pegasus. He was leaning over the dais, breathing heavily. The dagger slipped from his magical grip and clattered to the ground, but it was miles away. He stood and took a deep breath, collecting himself before turning to face his final loose end.

Twilight Shimmer, the only pony left in the room besides the “cultist” (Bloodflow laughed at the term), was gazing at him with a delicious horror in her eyes. Bloodflow drank the horror like a fine wine, taking slow, deliberate steps toward his quarry. He opened his mouth to gloat, and then his world ripped apart.

His mind broke. The walls holding each of the other ponies in place evaporated, allowing memories and feelings and experiences that weren’t his to crash into his own mind. All that escaped his lips was an ear-piercing shriek as his mind turned to mush. He found himself on the ground, but couldn’t seem to remember how he got there. His body convulsed, muscles spasming at random as he fought for control. He could block out his servants, but the pegasus had remarkable conviction. She might’ve made a loyal helper. She was even beautiful…

Focus!

Bloodflow erected the walls between his minds once more, although now they were made of sand rather than stone. It would have to do. He pulled himself to his hooves and glared at Shimmer, murder in his eyes. She tried pathetically to get away, but the wine-red unicorn flung her back against the wall. He had barely used any power at all and had thrown her much harder than intended; He thought he heard some ribs crack. He marveled at his easy it was, like waving a fly away. He was about to finish her off when the walls in his mind came down again.

The assault on his mind by the pegasus caught him unawares. She was fighting him for control, and with his mind in shambles, she was winning. Bloodflow collapsed again, but he didn’t scream this time. The pegasus now had controlling stake in his mind, and she spoke through him, with his voice. It was sickening, the feeling of words leaving his mouth that weren’t his own.

“Go!” he said through gritted teeth. “I can’t hold him much longer!”

And she was holding him. He couldn’t seem to force his muscles to move no matter how hard he tried. His quarry fled, and his plans fled with her. He wanted, needed to go after her, but he simply couldn’t with this mare controlling his mind. His convulsions grew more violent as he fought harder and harder. He tasted blood, having bitten his lip. He focused on the pain, used it to clear his mind, and pushed the mare back into her place. He put the walls back up, strengthening them as best he could manage.

He stood and exited the chamber, feeling exhausted despite the influx of energy his body had just received. He could feel the pegasus clawing at the walls, and it took all of his focus just to keep her contained. Just because she was contained didn’t mean he couldn’t hear her, though. She was shouting at him, a constant voice screaming in his head.

He stumbled out into the night air, the voice still clawing at his thoughts. Twilight Shimmer was gone, but it barely registered. Outside the cottage was the unconscious form of the pony who was supposed to guard the ritual. For some reason, thinking of this pony’s failure filled Bloodflow with a rage far beyond what he could comprehend. It filled his brain, roaring with such a fury that it drowned out even the pegasus. He snapped the pony’s neck and picked him up, smashing his head into the wall again and again and again until it was nothing but a bloody pulp. He didn’t use his magic. It was much more satisfying to use his hooves. When he was done, blood coating his forehooves, his anger cooled just as quickly as it had arrived. A relieved sigh escaped his lips when the voice didn’t return.

Sweet silence.

He couldn’t stay here; he needed a new plan. In a brilliant black flash, Bloodflow disappeared from the clearing, leaving only a hint of magic and a bloodied corpse behind.

Bloodflow hadn’t even meant to teleport. He was just thinking of his study, and then he disappeared. Teleporting was a strange feeling, like being held underwater while something dragged you down. He was calm, no fear of drowning, and halfway through the journey, he was no longer being pulled down, but up. Then, he surfaced, and he was at his destination. He gasped from the experience when he resurfaced.

Bloodflow’s personal study at Whitefall Manor was well furnished, lavish by even noblepony standards. The carpet was a thick, plush silk rug imported from Saddle Arabia, his desk was carved of white ash, a wood no longer found within the borders of Equestria. The chair sitting behind the desk was as soft as it was big, dwarfing anypony who sat in it, but it was high off the ground, which gave Bloodflow a menacing height when he was dealing with subordinates. There was a simple stone fireplace, which Bloodflow lit with a spark of magic. He marveled once again at how simple it was. Casting simple spells was now like breathing to him, as he need only will it to be done and it would be done.

Unfortunately, he would have to work on his teleportation. His arrival had rocked the building, knocking various knickknacks off the walls and throwing the room into disorder. Bloodflow hated disorder. With the faintest whisper of power, he put everything back in its place and cleared the blood from his hooves. He smiled. Much better.

Bloodflow collapsed into his chair and the bronze dagger clattered on his desk. He blinked at it. Had he brought it with him? He didn’t remember taking it from the ritual chamber. He picked it up, marveling at the artifact. He hadn’t gotten a chance to truly become acquainted with it yet. His eyes ran over the blade, drinking in every detail. The edge was thin, and razor sharp. It curved out from the handle in a gentle crescent moon shape, lending an exotic look. The handle was bound in simple leather. He squinted at the blade, whispering aloud the writing engraved on the side.

“Sprek’nan.” The name carried a weight to it. Bloodflow’s ancient Equish was rusty, but he knew from the legends what the name meant. Misery was the blade he held in his hands, the blade he had searched for so long to find. It had been quite the ordeal, but it was worth it to finally hold such unimaginable power in his hands.

Bloodflow’s thoughts were interrupted when the door to his study was opened abruptly. The blood-red unicorn’s manservant, Beckend Call, trotted in. He was a dark green earth pony with a sandy blonde mane going grey with age. When he caught sight of his master, he stopped dead.

“M-Master Bloodflow,” he stuttered. “I-um, I didn’t know you were home, sir. I simply came to check on a disturbance that I heard, sir, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Bloodflow shifted his gaze lazily from Sprek’nan, from Misery, to Beckend. “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to die, Beck?”

The question caught the earth pony off guard. “Sir?” Bloodflow repeated the question. “I try not to think that far ahead, sir.” Bloodflow chuckled.

“I suppose that is best. Don’t worry about me Beck, the disturbance you heard was merely an experiment. Dismissed.”

“Thank you sir,” Beck said with a bow, exiting the room just as quickly as politeness would allow. He had learned that with Master Bloodflow, it was best not to ask questions.

Bloodflow went back to examining the dagger, but his thoughts were quickly interrupted by a shrill scream. He started, nearly falling out of his chair, and looked around for the source. It had sounded so close! Then it happened again, and Bloodflow realized that it was in his head. The pegasus had started up again. Bloodflow tried to ignore her, instead walking to the window and looking out over Canterlot. The heart and lifeblood of Equestria, and it sickened him.

These ponies were blind. Blind to the hate, blind to the strife, blind to the suffering felt by millions of other creatures every single day of their lives. The princesses were just as bad, idealistic fools leading their subjects into an age of ignorance. There was no progress, there was no true happiness, and there was no conflict, at least not in the eyes of the public. Every iota of pain and misery was just swept under the rug and forgotten, but there was no more room under that rug. Bloodflow was proof of that. He would free these ponies from the fool princesses, from those infuriating “Slingers,” and from themselves. Under him, Equestria would prosper as it never had before, but before you can build, you must destroy.

Bloodflow would destroy Equestria, but how? Even with his immense power, he couldn’t stand up to the princesses and every unicorn they employed; it would simply be impossible. His gaze returned to the knife. It would be easy to absorb another pony. Now that the ritual had been performed once, all it would take was a simple stab. Then the pegasus screamed again. Bloodflow clenched his eyes shut and clamped his hooves over his ears, but nothing would stop the screaming.

“Shut up!” he yelled. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

Bloodflow barely heard the door open, was hardly aware of his magic igniting. He only regained his senses when the maid who had come to check on him was a bloody pulp on the floor. Bloodflow could only smile. The screaming had stopped.

Focusing his thoughts once more, he turned to formulating a plan. It would take time, but time was one thing that he had on his side. He sat back down in his chair, lounging, relaxing in a way only a pony completely sure of himself could. He would wait, and when his time came, it would be glorious.