Good Intentions

by fic Write Off

The Ends

She came to the village from the barren, wasted fields when the autumn sun was halfway to zenith. He saw her from the height of his tower long before the other sentries. For some reason, he did not raise his crossbow.

She approached the twin carved poles marking the edge of the village, hailed the guards. They let her on through, spears turned in her direction. He saw the bulges on the sides of her cloak long before somepony had the idea to pat her down. They tore off her cloak. A thick belt pinned her wings to her sides. The guards surrounded her, spears leveled. One rummaged through the knapsack she brought. He found something, gave a shout.

The pegasus said something, her lips moving without tremble or stutter. The guards looked at each other and nodded. He denocked the arrow in his crossbow and holstered the weapon, picked up the strip of pink silk from his lap, folded it up and placed it in his saddlebag. Grabbing the sides of the ladder with his hooves, he slid down from the tower and followed the mare and her convoy into the village. They entered the biggest yurt in the center, and he followed, giving a nod to the guard.

Inside, the sun streamed throguh the hole in the ceiling and lit up the thick cotton stretched over wooden posts that served as the walls. Thin carpets covered the bare ground, grass sprouting in the cracks. She stood before the Elder, wings still bound. He squeezed through the ponies crowding the yurt and stood to the side.

One of the guards shook free the mare's knapsack. A statue fell on the ground with a dull sound, glittering with gold. It was a pony standing on her hind legs, her wings unfurled and horn pointing at the sky. The Elder picked it up with her boney hooves, her eyes darting over the strange statue like dull marbles rolling on a table, not knowing where they should stop.

"What a strange one, Ma Staff," said the elder's son sitting at her side. "It's got both wings and a…" He tapped his bare forehead with a hoof.

"It's gold, boy," the Elder, Gold Staff, replied. "Weird or not, the caravaneers will take it." She put down the statue and smiled at the pegasus. "To what do we owe the pleasure, drifter?"

The mare straightened her shoulders. Her wings twitched, trying to unfurl from the belt binding them. "I am Monsoon, of the Dragonpeak flock. We've a great suffering, for we are out of an ingredient for a potent healing salve we use to stave off disease. We need the eyes of twig blights, but the forests at the foot of our mountain are empty of them. The caravaneers said, you've scrappers without par, who can trap a twig blight for us."

"Twig blights, you say…" Gold Staff bobbed the statue on her hoof, judging its weight.

"I know it is dangerous, but we've more gold in our treasuries," Monsoon said. "We need a steady supply, and if your scrappers are as good—"

"Fine, fine, I get it!" Gold Staff waved a hoof. She picked him out in the crowd without error. "Flint, step forward."

He unsheathed his crossbow and knelt before the Elder. Monsoon eyed him from head to the tip of his tail.

"Flint Scrap is our best scrapper. He'll get you a blight for sure."

"I may need more than one, Elder."

"Fine, take Bronze Pot with you. He's somewhere on the edge of the Forest." Gold Staff grabbed the horn of the statue and pulled it side-to-side. "And your reward… is… is…" The horn snapped with crack, leaving a jagged stump on the statue's forehead. "This piece. Or bigger rations, if you want. Now go."

Flint stood up and gave a short bow. His eyes met Monsoon's testing gaze, and the stallion felt a heavy, sucking feeling in his gut. Without a word, he turned towards the exit.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Gold Staff said, putting her statue away. "It's a good thing you came on hoof. It's best that you keep those wings bound. The only feathers we have are on our bolts, but those never miss."

She angled her head and stared at Monsoon from under her wrinkled brows. "And do not approach the palisade. There will be neither questions nor mercy."

Monsoon took her bow and left the yurt at Flint's side. Without a word, he led her in the direction of the massive trees of the Whispered Forest, swaying in the distance.

---

There was not a single place, hidden or visible, in the Whispered Forest that was not constantly in motion. Red, dotted ladybugs and menacing stag beetles. Scurrying lizards and toads reclining in pools of mud. Dull-coated mice ran through the tall grass. Bright flowers dotted the ground like accents of paint dropped from a brush. Mighty trees, covered with slithering vines, blotted the sun with their leaves.

Flint stopped at a small clearing flanked by leaning trees. He placed the wooden cage he carried in his mouth on the ground, careful not to spook the white rabbit inside. He picked up the rabbit and some other supplies from Bronze Pot on the edge of the forest. The scrapper went in another direction to set his own traps, while Monsoon followed Flint, carrying a bundle of thin prods. She spat them on the ground while Flint took off his saddlebag.

"Is this what you're going to make a trap out of?" she asked.

"Mhhmm," Flint replied, using twine to tie the cage to spikes sticking in the ground.

Monsoon kicked the bundle with a hoof. "I don't think so. I can't imagine this firewood killing anything."

"Oh?" Flint put his forehooves on a tree, searching through the leaves with his eyes.

"Are you going to keep this up?" Monsoon narrowed her eyes. "You can't speak anything else?"

"Not really."

"Very funny."

Flint parted the branches. "If you really want to know," Flint said, tapping on a strip of brown cloth nailed to the bark, "this is the trap. I need that to reset it. I'm sorry if this isn't how your flock hunts twig blights."

"Fine." Monsoon leaned on a fallen tree.

"Why don't you tell me how you hunt?" Flint took out his knife from the sheath on his belt and bit the blade with his mouth. "And while you do, hoof me a cord from my saddlebag."

Monsoon trotted over to his saddlebag, trying not to look at the rabbit sitting still in the cage. "Can't help you, I'm not a hunter."

"Yet they've sent you for twig blight parts."

"I don't need to hunt them to know which parts we need. And… what's this?" She pulled out a short paper tube out of the bag, a grainy cord sticking from one end. Powder rattled inside. "You have thunderpowder?"

Flint's ears twitched. He took the knife out of his mouth and turned around, pointing the blade at Monsoon. "Put it down. Now."

"I can see hunting a blight with this—"

"No. You keep quiet in the Whispered Wood."

Monsoon pouted and put the thunderstick back. She tossed Flint a roll of silver strings from the bag.

"Don't ever touch my things again without permission."

Flint climbed the tree and returned with the strings in his teeth, tied to a hidden trap above. He hammered the prods in the ground in equal intervals with a stone and pulled the fishing line around them. The strings surrounded the cage from all sides, visible only as a slight silver sheen.

"So, what exactly do you need to take?" Flint asked, testing the strings.

"The eyes."

"How many?"

Monsoon looked around. Her wings twitched under the belt. "…Four should be enough."

"So, you'll need only one twig blight? And what about the tentacles? I thought they're the most potent component."

"The recipe doesn't call for twig blight tentacles, I only need the eyes." Monsoon gulped. "Do you smell that? Are we safe?"

Flint stood up. He spun around and looked Monsoon straight in the eyes, almost bumping foreheads with her. She gasped and jumped back.

"Twig blights don't have tentacles," Flint said, every other word of his carrying an edge. "And they've only got two eyes."

"What?"

"You've never seen a twig blight before. They never leave this forest, so I doubt they're even found anywhere else."

Monsoon took a step back, pushing against the fallen tree. "How?"

"Call it a scrapper's tricks, intuition, whatever." Flint snorted a puff of hot air on her snout. "What do you really want?"

Her eyes darted around. "I need to get into the Grove."

"Everypony wants to get into the Grove," Flint said. "That's why we turn away most drifters and shoot the rest."

"Help me get through the palisade." She put her hooves against his chest. "If I could take one thing from there, I would do a lot of good—"

He knocked her hooves away and stepped back. "Nothing good ever comes from that place. It's cursed. That's why we guard it."

"Then why do caravaneers peddle the apples from the grove? I know that the scrappers smuggle fruit from behind the palisade. You know a way…"

"What do you want? What makes you so sure that those apples will bring you any good?" Flint asked.

"A golden apple grows on the tallest tree in the Grove," Monsoon said, stepping to Flint's side.

"There are no golden apples in there."

"Ah! So you were inside!"

Flint cringed and raised an eyebrow. Monsoon's mouth stretched into a wide grin. He huffed and trotted to the tree housing the trap.

"This golden apple is magical," Monsoon said, trotting by his side. "It can save us from the hornheads, if we bring it to the Cinderhorn."

"We? To the Cinderhorn?"

"Yes!" Monsoon drew a straight line in the air with a hoof. "Just grab the apple, take the Iron Road to the mountains and slip past the hornheads."

Flint sighed and shook his head. "You have a stubborn head full of nonsense. I recommend finding a shaman and getting a hole for it."

In a single leap, Monsoon jumped in front of him. This time, he took a step back. "I'm sure of it! I've… been told so. If the apple is brought to the top of the Cinderhorn, the hornheads will disappear, just like that. Poof!" She clapped her hooves together and spread them wide, like a cloud exploding into mist.

Flint opened his mouth, but his breath caught in his throat. His ears perked up. A quiet sounds of striking bells resounded through the forest, barely a whisper over the rustling of grass.

"Something's coming!"

He grabbed Monsoon before she could say a word and jumped into the shrubs. A lean ash tree, overgrown with vines sprouting in pink roses, stood nearby, and Monsoon put a hoof on its bark to support herself while she peeked. Flint watched through the bushes.

The snapping of branches was its first announcement. The air filled with the stench of sulfur and iodine. Two bright lights lit up in the green darkness beyond the canopy. Monsoon swallowed a gasp. One paw, as large as a pony's head, covered in—or made from—rough tree bark and crowned with sharp claws stepped into the clearing. Then another. Then its face appeared, with a snout long and cylindrical like a log and two leafy brows over glowing, focused eyes. Its teeth were white like a sharpened palisade. The rabbit pushed against the wall of its cage.

The twig blight stepped forward, crouching low like a hunting dog, its eyes on its prey. A cloud of green smoke, sparkling with pollen, came out of its mouth. The beast towered over the cage. It lifted a leg to crush the thin bars, a silvery gleam rising with it, racing on twin lines to the ground. With a metallic pluck and a snap, the trap sprung. Something cracked above. The trees shook their branches. The blight only looked up as the canopy spat out a colossal tree trunk. It smashed into the beast with the sound of a hundred twigs broken underhoof at the same time. Splinters and wooden limbs flew in all directions. The heavy trunk pressed what was left into the ground, leaving only a head and a paw to stick out.

The ground shook from the impact, making Monsoon jump. Her eyes opened wide, pupils dilated, but a twitching smile appeared on her lips. "I see how it's deadly, now."

Flint let out a breath he's been holding and turned to Monsoon. His mouth snapped shut. He reached for the knife.

"It's dead, right?" Monsoon looked at him. "Flint? What is—"

His hoof clamped over her face. "Don't move!" He lifted the knife and aimed at her face, then slightly to the right. "Keep quiet! Don't breathe!"

She turned her eyes to the spot he was looking at. A pink rose, one of the dozens growing on the tree, folded in half. It flapped its petals a few times and flew off, turned into a butterfly. The insect traced a circle between them, Flint's eyes watching its every movement. When the butterfly left, he put away his hoof and sheathed the knife.

"What? What's that?" Monsoon asked between gasps.

"Butterfly," Flint said, stepping out of the shrubs. "Pink one, disguises as a flower. It's how the forest hears and smells."

He slung the saddlebag over his back. "How it hunts."

Monsoon stood still, staring at the remains of the blight while Flint fastened the belt. He turned to leave.

"Wait!" she called out to him. "So, what say you? About the grove?"

Flint reached into his bag and took out a small carving knife. He threw it before her hooves. "Take that thing's eyes and leave. Don't ever come back."

"But I need your help!"

"If you think you need more eyes, or a tentacle, look for Bronze Pot. Maybe he'll help you."

Flint stepped on the trail and started back to the village.

---

The moon shied behind a scatter of flakey clouds, spilling a gentle blue beam through the hole in Flint's yurt. Sleep escaped him, so he lied in his bed, stroking a strip of pink silk. It was soft and warm, and he tried to tell himself that it was warm by itself, not heated by his breath. Rooks fought outside.

A flash of red streaked across the moon. Flint blinked. The clouds turned purple. He sighed, stood up and went to the window. Light spilled from the mountain again this night.

In the distance, the Cinderhorn loomed. The mountain started gray like its neighbors, but the peak was black as charcoal, as if a veil dressed it for a funeral. On its side, the twisted tower hung, like a piece of charcoal, a tumor, a burnt match. Beams of light spilled from the windows like lamps set inside the empty sockets of a skull.

Flint closed his eyes and brought the silk to his nose. It smelled of strawberries and dandelions. There was a hint of thyme, a passing waft of mint and a subtle memory of roses in there, but behind them, an almost imperceptible smell of juniper, pungent and oily. He concentrated on the strawberries and the juniper, imagined them braided into hair and tied together with a pink bow.

Flint opened his eyes. He folded the cloth, placed it into his bags, slung them over his back and stepped outside, onto the roads of trampled durt and clouds of dust lighted by the moon.

Getting through the streets wasn't hard. Make sure there's nopony in sight, run to the next yurt, listen for hoofsteps, repeat. The village slept. The palisade guards did not.

A wide ring of empty ground surrounded the wall, patrolled day and night by arbalists. Flint ducked in the bushes on the side of the forest. Before him stood a wall of ancient tree trunks, cracked and withered, sharpened to a row of vicious teeth at the top. He crawled on his belly through the vegetation, circling the palisade, pushing crunchy leaves and twigs out of his way.

The boulder was on the usual place, pushed into the ground and cleaned of hoofprints. Flint tested the soil beside the stone. Moist and flakey. Somepony moved the stone and then replaced it.

"Oh that stupid, stupid mare."

Flint braced against the boulder and pushed. It rolled away with some effort, revealing the black hole of a tunnel beneath it. Taking one last look around, Flint dove into the ground.

He crawled through complete darkness, counting seconds under his breath. Hanging roots grabbed at his mane. He counted to eight minutes before a muted light appeared on the other end.

The tunnel exited inside the Grove, right under the palisade. A veil of vines covered the hole. The odor of crushed leaves, smoking wood and apples tickled Flint's nose, made him cough. A heavy leaf-green fog hung in the air, glowing from within as if a distant orange light beamed inside. The apple trees grew in ordered rows that stretched on until they were but identical shadows in the fog.

Fat red apples weighted down the trees. Flint turned away from one tree, then looked back. As always, the apples were still there—but hung from different branches.

The grass tickled his hooves like a silk carpet as Flint trotted forward. There was one constant place in the Grove, and he knew that he'd find her there.

An eyeless skull of a twig blight, set on a pike, guarded the site of the conflagration, its jaw hanging from one end in a distorted scream. Planks and wooded beams, white, red and charred, littered the ground, mixed with the ash. Monsoon stood in the center, looking around with knitted brows and a pursed mouth. She saw Flint approach and opened her mouth.

"You shouldn't have taken my advice so literally," he said.

"What are you doing here? Changed your mind?"

"The Cinderhorn." He pushed his hoof into the ash, charcoal crunching under his horseshoe. "Can you get there? To the hornheads?"

"Why are you trusting me all of a sudden?" Monsoon asked.

"I'm not. Answer me." Flint grit his teeth. "Do you know how to get to the Cinderhorn, by the Iron Road? Can you evade the hornheads?"

Monsoon gasped. Her brows climped up. "You… You've lost somepony. The hornheads took them, right?"

"Just tell me—"

A deep, loud groan reverberated through the grove, making Flint's throat tremble.

"The foghorn." He looked around. "Where is Bronze?"

Monsoon spun around, her untied wings springing to attention. "He went ahead and told me to wait here!"

"You stupid mare! He's sold you out. They're coming!"

A creaking, grinding sound came from the direction of the palisade. The gates were opened.

Flint broke into a gallop deeper into the grove, and Monsoon followed close.

"I thought it was forbidden to enter." she said, gasping for air.

"No, coming inside isn't bad, taking anything is." Flint turned left and right, snaking between the trees. "They're here to stop the thieves!"

The trees parted ahead. Flint braked on the ground. Monsoon almost crashed into him. In the clearing, a tree stood on top of a hill, a ribcage of roots supporting a withered trunk. Monsoon brought a hoof to her mouth. From one of the leafless branches, a golden apple hung from a copper stem.

"This wasn't here before," Flint said, shaking his head.

Monsoon galloped to the tree, spreading her wings and flying up for the final stretch. She grabbed the apple and plucked it from the branch, howevering in the air as she stared at her reflection. Something long and thin whistled before her nose. Before she could turn around, Flint jumped up and snatched her out of the air. Two more bolts passed where she was a second ago.

Flint spat out her tail on the run. "Go!"

They galloped to the other side of the palisade, bolts whistling past and bouncing off trees, their bark impenetrable even to axes. The wooden wall appeared in front of them. Without skipping a beat, Flint hooked one foreleg through the belt of his saddlebag and loosened it, leaving it behind him. He aimed at a pile of leaves gathered against the wall and jumped straight through, into another tunnel.

This one was old, the ground narrowing without use. He pulled himself through, sometimes digging through the narrowest places. Peddles and roots scraped against his coat. A dark blue spot appeared in the distance, and Flint redoubled his efforts.

He reached the end, tasting the night breeze with his nose and spit out the dirt from his mouth. Two pairs of hooves grabbed his forelegs and tugged him out. Flint winced from the scrapes on his coat and dropped his head in a coughing fit. Two spears poked him in the chest. A group of arbalists aimed their crossbows.

Flint sighed. "Damn it."

"Wait! There!" one of the arbalists shouted. They all turned towards the palisade, where a winged silhouette glided from the wall into the bushes on the edge of the forest. The marksponies aimed too late, firing blindly into the vegetation.

Flint frowned and spat on the ground.

They dragged him through the streets by his forelegs, his hind hooves leaving grooves in the ground. Ponies, awoken by the foghorn, lined the streets. They blinked curiously at first, but as understanding dawned, faces twisted with rage. They grabbed the dirt they stood on and threw it at him, hollering and cursing. A crowd gathered by the time he was taken to the main square, before the gates of the palisade.

The Elder was already waiting, her dusky eyes narrowed, her hoof gripping her staff so hard that it shook. The guards pushed Flint forward. He fell on his stomach, prostrated before Gold Staff.

The Elder lifted her staff and turned to the crowd. The ponies ceased their chanting and went silent. Flint picked himself up. His legs and hooves burned, but he tried to stand up on all four legs.

"From the moment we are born, and to the day of our deaths, we are the protectors of the Grove of Truth!" Gold Staff said, waving her staff. The crowd murmured. "The gifts of the Grove must be preserved, never to leave the palisade, for the good of the world and the safety of our own."

"Considering how they're peddled freely on the caravan—" A smack to his cheek by the head of the Elder's staff silenced Flint.

"Our mission is holy. It is for the greater good." Gold Staff looked him in the eye. "Then what are we to do with a traitor?"

The crowd answered. "Death! Death! Death!"

"I told you that this would happen, Flint Scrap." The Elder's eyes glimmered with a fire fanned by the chanting behind her. The villagers stomped the ground in a quickening rhythm. "You took from the Grove before, but I forgave you. I thought that what happened to your wife and daughter was enough, that life would teach you. I was wrong."

A sudden dizyness descended on Flint. His face contorted with rage, his breathing quickened. His heart pounded in his ears. With a scream, he lunged at Elder. She met him with a jab to the chest with her staff. The wind left his lungs. Flint faltered, the world leaning on one side. The Elder grabbed her staff lower on the shaft and swung at his head, sending Flint sprawling into the dirt.

The ground vibrated in rhythm with the crowd. A warm droplet streamed across his brow from the gnash on his forehead. The Elder's face came first into focus, twisted in a cracked grin. Something flew through the air between them, spinning, sizzling and smoking. The Elder gasped, her toothless mouth opening in a silent scream.

Like a giant fish slapping him in the chest with its tail, the explosion threw Flint back. The crowd screamed, but sounded oddly like bells ringing next to his ears. A cloud of smoke rolled on top of him. He rolled on his back, coughing. Through the cloud, he saw the silhouette of a giant, four-legged bird.

"'Scrapper's tricks' you've said, right?" Monsoon touched down next to Flint, a tinderwheel clamped in her mouth and his saddlebag strapped to her back.

"Not this close… to ears… dumb horse!"

Monsoon grabbed his forelegs and flapped her wings, jumping into the air. She reached into the saddlebag and took out another thunderstick, biting the cord down between the two wheels of the tinderwheel in her mouth. She pulled the cord through, the wheels lighting it near the end.

Flint shook himself awake. He brought his hind legs closer to himself and curled his tail instinctively when he noticed how far the ground was below. "Wait! Get down, or they'll shoot you!"

Something zipped past his face, flying through his mane. Monsoon yelped. The thunderstick fell out of her hoof. Her legs weakened their grip on Flint. "Monsoon!" he cried. The ground rapidly approached.

They fell on top of a yurt, breaking the supports and sending the tent crashing down into a tangled mess. It broke their fall, but Flint still had to brace for impact. Monsoon landed nearby, groaning with pain. The bangstick exploded somewhere in the street, sending up another cloud of thick gray smoke.

Flint rolled on his hooves, gritting his teeth against the burning pain. He ran up to Monsoon. A fletched shaft stuck from her wing near the joint, her feathers stained with blood. Flint shook her awake and put her foreleg around his neck.

They limped out of the remains of the yurt just as several bolts flew through the smoke, embedding themselves in the cloth. "Quickly, while they're firing blind!"

Through sheer luck, they landed close to the palisade near the forest. Flint and Monsoon crossed the no-pony's land before the wall and ducked into the thick vegetation. Flint led in front, swerving from one overgrown trail to another. Monsoon was right after him, her injured wing hanging on her side. Behind them, the foghorn groaned again.

Sparse shrubs turned to thick trees covered by ropey, slithering vines. The Whispered Forest was pitch-black inside, with rare beams of green-tinted moonlight making through the canopy. Torches and lamps flickered in the distance, like dancing candles. Even the screams of their pursuers, echoing from tree to tree, couldn't drown out the endless singing of cicadas.

"Stop!" Monsoon said.

Flint froze mid-stride. He leaned back and put his hooves where they were one step before.

"There's a trap."

Flint looked up. Sharp spikes peeked out from the canopy, only their very tips slightly visible.

"I saw the marker." Monsoon pointed at the brown strip of cloth nailed to the tree. "I've sharp eyes."

"Thanks." Flint nodded.

Monsoon gave him a half-smile, half-wince and they continued on, walking around the other side of the tree.Flint led them on a trail out of the forest, circling the village. Meanwhile, Monsoon was sharp on the lookout for more traps.

They came to a massive oak when Monsoon noticed a flicker of light in the pond nearby. Flint grabbed her hoof and led her behind the tree. The hoofsteps of a dozen ponies echoed around them, their shouts and barked orders resounding through the forest. Their torches lighted the oak's leaves from below and painted the surface of the pond yellow. Flint pushed himself deeper into the bark as shadows receded around them.

"I'm sorry," Monsoon whispered.

Flint looked down. Light reflected off the wet trails on her cheeks. Something moved on the bark behind her head. A rose flower folded in half, its petals flapping in the air. He gulped and reached out with a shaky hoof.

"Close your eyes."

Flint bit on his lower lip and pushed the butterfly against the tree as hard as he could.

It was as if he stuck his leg into a fire. Flint gasped and threw his head up. A puff of smoke sizzled from under his hoof. The cicadas stopped singing.

A low hum sounded from the depths of the forest and grew louder, like distant thunder flying towards them. The branches of the oak swayed as if shook by invisible hooves. Flint hugged Monsoon and jumped into the pond.

The swarm passed above, a thousand tiny wings beating with enough force to part the water around them. The ponies screamed and dropped their torches. The ground shook, as if the trees pulled out their roots like giant, snaking legs from the ground. The guards ran, screaming and swatting away at the insects. Some tripped and fell, and were the first to go mute. Others ran away, their voices growing quieter and quieter.

Flint and Monsoon laid in the pond, half-submerged in water reeking with plants, not daring to move.

What seemed like an eternity later, the cicadas sang again.

---

They walked through the rest of the forest without incident, silent, but alive.

Flint found a hollow tree trunk marked with a green strip of cloth—a stash for scrappers that lost their way. Inside were food, water, medicine, torches, a spare saddlebag, blanket, rope and a crossbow with ammunition.

They gathered wood and started a fire. Monsoon bit down on a fallen branch as Flint broke and pulled out the arrow. He cauterized the wound with a piece of burning coal. Monsoon herself was surprised at how well she took it. They washed her wing and bandaged it between two ribworth leaves. She was grounded for now, though gliding was still an option.

Flint cleaned out the frog of his hoof and applied a medicinal salve. The wound quickly formed a black butterfly-shaped scar. He bandaged it and put his weight on it, making sure that his limp was bearable.

The sun was halfway to zenith by the time they left the forest far enough from the village to avoid any patrols. There was only one road leading to the Cinderhorn, and it was a mystery. Nopony traveled by the Iron Road. Its only markers were two iron rails, half-buried in the sand, running parallel to each other, twisting and snaking as far as the eye could see. They were like two raised roads built by a civilization of lilliputian ponies.

"Lilliputian?" Flint asked.

"Little—little ponies." Monsoon smiled.

Flint looked back, where the road ran to the village. Only the tops of guard towers could be seen, little bumps on the horizon.

"So, how do we make it through the hornheads?" he asked.

"I don't know yet." She opened the flap of her saddlebag and touched the copper stem of the cloth-wrapped apple. "But we've this, so I'm sure that we'll make it."

So they set out on the road, with only the autumn leaves carried by the wind as their company. They walked through forest clearings and passed rivers on shakey bridges. They walked past burnt huts and abandoned carts. They walked by a peaceful lake, its surface disturbed only by water striders and flapping fish, and camped on its shore. They briskly trotted past a field of grass stained red and besieged by swarms of flies.

The sun was falling down over the horizon by the time the road took a sharp incline and dense shrubs and forests changed to gray stone. Another set of rails joined the road, swerving from a tunnel in the mountain, and the sand and gravel parted to reveal the wooden planks set at even intervals in the ground, holding the Iron Road together.

Coversations tired them a long time ago, and the only sounds they made were the occasional clink of a horseshoe on iron.

The higher they went, the colder and darker it became. They walked on the side of the mountain, a steep drop down separated from the road only by a dozen centimeters of gravel. The road swerved inside the mountain more frequently, and for longer. Flint lit a torch to guide them in the tunnels.

A frosty wind raced through the mountain, no matter how deep the road took them. Somewhere, always too far away, drops of water splashed on stone. The carved walls, once smooth but now covered in deep scratches and hollow depressions, radiated cold.

It was closer to end of yet another tunnel that Flint stopped and put down his torch. "I can see the stars from here. We'd better rest here than outside."

They dropped their bags and spread their only blanket on the ground. Dried fruit, nuts and oats was a dinner they shared over the light of a dying torch.

Before the light went out completely, Flint searched in his bag and took out the strip of pink silk. Pond water stained one end, but it still had that smell of strawberries and juniper.

"Did it belong to her?" Monsoon asked.

Flint turned around and nodded. He laid down on the blanket, facing away from her and placed the folded bow under his cheek.

Monsoon moved closer to his side. "That old hag mentioned something about your family. Can I ask?"

He shrugged her hoof away. "Go to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."

She laid down next to him. Flint shuddered as a wave of soft warmth covered his shoulder and back.

"What are you doing?"

Monsoon wrapped her healthy wing tighter around him. "We've no blankets. You don't want to freeze to death, right? And I don't care about that."

Flint didn't reply. He pushed the bow closer to his cheek and waited until he was tired enough to ignore how cold his hooves were and fall asleep.

---

The blare of a horn, low and trembling, awoke him. Flint shook from the cold, his hooves numb and sore. Steam rose from his mouth. He kicked Monsoon awake. "Wake up. Now!"

She jumped up, turning her head around in a daze. She pulled back her wing, flakes of frost falling from it.

A blue light, muted and even, spilled into the tunnel from the exit. Flint jumped to his hooves, stuffed the bow in his bag and slung it over his back.

"Oh no." Monsoon spun around, shaking her head. The wind hastened, pulling at their manes. "We've to go! Now!"

"What is it?"

"Go!" She broke into a gallop towards the light.

Flint threw the blanket around his shoulders and followed after her. They stopped at the end of the tunnel. He winced his eyes against the morning sun, but it wasn't on the sky.

The tunnel opened into a free-standing bridge over a massive gorge. A cloud of blinding blue fog hung in the air, so that the black mouth of the tunnel on the other end was only a blurred shadow. Everything else disappeared, as if the bridge hung in the middle of a vast, blue void pelted by a relentless wind. Instead of a blot of light where the sun should have been, the fog provided its own illumination.

The planks creaked under Flint's hoof. Weathered by the wind, they turned dry and frail. A lot were missing, leaving gaping openings like holes in a grinning mouth. What was left of the guardrails, made from weaker wood, could no longer support themselves, much less anypony else. Flint made several steps, holding his breath and testing how every plank bent under his weight.

Monsoon's teeth rattled. She panted, searching around for something. A gust of wind struck at the bridge, swaying it to the side. The supports, made from whole trunks and studded with iron, whined and screamed. The blanket tore off from Flint's shoulders, throwing him on his knee.

"Run!" Monsoon jumped from her spot, healthy wing opening and closing as if unsure if it was safer to fly or to cling to the bridge. Flint scampered upright and galloped after her, trying to match the swaying of the bridge.

Something crashed below, several supports twisting out of shape and falling down, taking a whole section with them. The bridge collapsed right before Monsoon, planks and all, with only the iron rails hanging over the gap, curved under their own weight.

Flint ran up to her. "Jump! You're a bloody pegasus!"

"No!" She stared down into the gorge. "It's the tempest!"

Flint turned his back to her and knelt down on his front legs. "Spread your wings."

Monsoon's eyes opened wide. "What?"

He bucked her right under the tail, sending Monsoon flying over the gorge. Her wings opened on instinct halfway, letting her glide the rest of the way.

Flint pulled back to make a running start. He lowered his head and broke into a gallop towards the gorge. He jumped, pushing against the edge with both rear legs and landed on the other side. With a loud crack, the planks under his rear legs broke, falling into the void. Flint fell on his chest, scratching at the smooth planks with his front hooves as he slid down. Monsoon jumped to him, grabbing his hooves and stopping his fall.

"Got you!"

Flint's legs dangled over the precipice. He tried to find purchase on the support beams when a bright blue light flooded the bridge. Flint squeezed his eyes shut against it, bright as staring into the midday sun.

It rose from the gorge and hovered over the side of the bridge. A blue will-o'-the-wisp, a bright disk like the sun shining through storm clouds. A halo of colors surrounded it: red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue and purple. Monsoon froze, staring at it, her mouth agape.

Flint tugged at her legs. "Monsoon! Lift me up!"

She shook her head and blinked. Trying not to look at the light again, Monsoon pulled Flint over the edge, stood up and ran to the tunnel. Another gust of wind swayed the bridge, several sections on the other side collapsing. Flint ran after Monsoon, into the tunnel.

The wind followed them inside, howling and whistling against the walls. Flint gasped when he noticed his shadow growing shorter, despite him running away from the light.

A thunderous crack filled the air, like a giant whip snapping. For a moment, the tunnel turned blindingly bright with the colors of the rainbow. Something hit Flint in the back. A lash of pure fire licked his coat, sending spasms through his limbs. He tripped and fell, screaming in pain.

Monsoon picked him up, lifting his leg over her shoulders. They galloped through the tunnels, until it was dark, until they tripped without a torch. They ran until they could no longer hear the gale outside.

They collapsed on the ground, panting and sweating, shivering from the frost. Flint sat on his haunches, trying hard not move his back or think how it looked now. Monsoon lied on her side and curled into a ball. She trembled.

"The w-walls were b-b-blown away! The wind! The tempest! L-lightning…" she said, sobbing. "Zephyr… He just… Blown away…"

Using his forelegs, Flint crawled over to her. He put a hoof on her shoulder. Monsoon sprang up and batted him away with a wing.

"What… What in the name of Tartarus am I doing here? This isn't what I want. I can't do this!" She stomped a hoof on the iron rail. "Why the hay did I come here?!"

Flint sighed and shook his head. Propping himself on a foreleg, he took off his saddlebag. "I found it in the Grove, in the ruins of that house." He took out the bow and spread it across his lap. "Told the others I bought it from a caravan. My daughter loved it."

Still shivering, Monsoon perked up her ears.

"She put flowers she gathered in the plains in it: dandelions, roses. But she loved strawberries and juniper the most."

Monsoon half-turned towards him. "Why?"

He smirked. "Because those were their names. She was Juniper Berry, her mother—Strawberry Stalk. She thought it was cute."

The silk felt just as smooth under his hoof as always, but it was terribly cold. "One day, the shortage in our village grew very bad. We were always hungry—too many arbalists, not enough farmers.

"And the Grove was said to have anything anypony could desire. Others said that it had anything anypony ever deserved, but I thought that was good either way. I just didn't want to see Juniper hungry. I plucked an apple from the Grove, just one, and when I returned, they told me that they're dead."

Monsoon walked over to him and sat by his side, staring at the strip of pink silk.

"Hornheads ambushed them in the fields. They were gathering flowers. They… killed Strawberry. I've told that Juniper was dead, but her body never found. The apple I stole was found, and Gold Staff blamed me for everything."

Monsoon threw her legs over Flint's shoulders. "We'll find her! I know it, I know, I just know!"

"Care to tell me, how?"

"It was an apple from the Grove. Regular one. Bought it from a caravan." She took out the golden apple from her bag. "I saw it all in my dreams. The Grove and the golden apple, the Iron Road, the hornheads. I saw you—or, well, I saw that I needed help from somepony like you, a scrapper.

"If we bring this apple to the Cinderhorn, everything will be good. No more hornheads, no more tempests. No more groves and forests. The bad ones, I mean."

Flint's reflection stared back at him from the golden skin of the apple. "How's that going to happen?"

"No idea. But hey, it worked so far!" Monsoon sighed and covered the apple with its cloth. "Well, I sound terribly confident compared to you."

"Cheer up," Flint said. He tried to stand up, and gasped when a jolt of pain came through his back.

"Let's get this fixed, first."

She took the bandages from his bag and began to work on his back, rolling the white cloth oveer his burns and around his stomach. The wind still blared somewhere in the distance.

"I want you to know something, to keep it in mind."

Monsoon looked at him, eyebrow raised.

"I don't know if that apple will do whatever you believe it will do. That's not why I came with you. I'm here for Juniper first."

Monsoon nodded and went back to her work.

After a short rest, they continued through the tunnel, Flint's torch lighting the path. Large cracks started appearing in the walls. Rubble, ranging from boulders to whole collapsed sections, littered the path.

The tunnel came to a premature end where the ceiling collapsed completely. The Iron Road ended short of its only destination.

"No way through." Flint lowered his torch and jumped down from the boulder. "The section's a couple meters long everywhere. We'll spend a week digging through."

"Blow it up?" Monsoon grinned, her eyebrows dancing. "There are thundersticks left, right?"

"Only two. One would be enough to blow through the blockage, but I'm pretty sure that the rest of the tunnels would follow suit."

Several holes and passages lined the tunnels on their way here, but Flint and Monsoon ignored them. They traced back their steps, looking through each. Most were just places where pieces of the wall fell, uncovering a small natural pocket, or shallow cracks dug out by time. Finally, they found an opening big enough for them to squeeze through. A damp breeze blowed through.

The tunnel led down, into the depths. With a surprising satisfaction, Flint noticed that they were getting closer to the source of that cursed sound of dropping water.

Flint crawled out into the cavern first. He lifted his torch up, surveying his surroundings with wide eyes. Monsoon came to his side, speechless.

The cavern was at least ten meters wide, with a ceiling stretching at least twice as high. The length stretched on into the darkness. Where before was stone, the walls were now instead reflective crystals faceted with dozens of flat sides. The flame of their torch danced on each and every one, filling the cavern with a red, trembling light. Glassy gems, blue and green and red, all the size of a pony's hoof and perfect in their form, studded what stone was left on the ceiling, sparkling like stars in constellations. Thick white webs stretched on the ceiling and in the corners, light dancing on their silvery strings.

In the distance, silhouettes of ponies stood motionless in the dark. Horned silhouettes. Flint unsheathed his crossbow and nocked it with a bolt. Without a word, he plunged the torch into the gravel. They crouched and walked forward, crystal dust crunching under their shoes.

The hornheads turned out to be statues. Dozens of them, in different poses, all perfect and sparkling like marble, lined the walls of the cavern. One was standing with his hoof outstretched forward, a plea on his frozen lips. Another lied down on the ground, her hoof lifted to her forehead, her mouth open in terror or grief. A shorter one danced on his hind hooves, juggling balls that did not make it into the sculpture. They all had milk-white skin studded with blue sparkling veins. Not a single one had a crack or a blemish.

"They're so… lifelike," Monsoon said, her hoof hovering over a statue's frozen face.

"They're just statues, can't hurt you. I'm more interested in whoever put them here. Let's go."

Something broke under Flint's hoof. He glanced down. A sheet of webbing lied on the ground, shattered to white fragments underhoof. The material sparkled. It was thin and heavy, like a slice of granite.

"Flint! I found something," Monsoon called out from somewhere ahead in the darkness. She pointed out something only she could see. "A flashing light, yellow. I think it's sunlight reflecting off of the crystals. What do you think?"

Flint shrugged. "I can't even see you rightly, you're the one with eagle eyes."

A figure moving at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Flint raised his crossbow and turned, but he saw only his trembling reflection. The crystal mirror shook. He felt it in the ground next—a slight trembling, like a distant earthquake. A crack of stone upon stone came from the side of the cave they came through. Then another. And another.

"What's wrong?" Monsoon asked.

Flint could only shout, "Run!" as the cave filled with a sapphire-blue glow.

Three mirrors alighted like searchlights in the darkness. Their beams reflected through the crystal hall, but a solid wall of darkness covered the thing. The cracking and grinding of stone filled the cavern. Tremors shook the ground as it advanced.

Flint brought the crossbow to his cheek, braced the stock, bit down on the handle sticking from the side and slipped a hoof through the trigger. He fired between two of the glowing eyes. The bolt bounced off the darkness with the sound of metal hitting stone.

The thing roared, cracking crystals on the walls. Flint turned and broke into a gallop, sending clouds of white dust into the air.

With the light from the monster's eyes, he could see his path clearly. The cavern ended in a steep drop into darkness just a hundred meters ahead, with the walls widening into passages on both sides. Flint glanced over his shoulder, judging the speed and maneuverability of the thing. If he was fast enough, and it stupid enough, he could drop it down.

Something flashed before him. A large piece of crystal, knocked down by the tremors, fell right on his way. Flint crashed into the crystal, falling on his side straight into a patch of marbly webs. He jumped on his hooves as fast as he could. The crossbow laid on the ground behind a fault in the wall, one he could squeeze through. The light around him dimmed, a smell of mercury filled his nostrils. Flint dived through the crack and grabbed his crossbow. The tunnel extended on both sides, leaving him just enough space to crawl through.

The monster stared right at him, the beam of light from its eye dimmed by the encroaching darkness. Flint pulled the string back between his mouth and his hooves, nocked a bolt. He reached into his bag and pulled out a thunderstick. He bit the fuse two thirds of the way to the case and used the rest to tie the explosive to the bolt.

He lit the fuse with the tinderwheel when the monster pulled back. Flint aimed his crossbow, careful to not let the sparks from the cord hit him in the face. The darkness receded, and Flint, mindful of the shortening cord, glanced outside.

A massive, onyx-black tendril smashed into the fault, throwing Flint against the wall. He fell on his stomach and crawled towards the end of the cavern. The tendril followed, ploughing through crystal and stone, an entire wall collapsing from the monster's finger.

Flint reached the end and rolled onto the white sand. The cavern opened into a crescent platform surrounding the black pit. The wall of darkness blotted out the entire passage back, the black tendril snaking from under one of its eyes. Flint crawled back as it reached out towards him. He felt the stock of his crossbow under his hoof and grabbed it without thinking. The sparks disappeared inside the thunderstick as he pulled the tigger. The bolt flew inside the wall of darkness. He couldn't see the blast, but he heard it.

The monster roared and thrashed, sending tremors that made Flint jump. It crashed its head against the ceiling, burying its eyes in the crystals. A rain of reflective shards, flashing like stars, fell upon Flint. He covered his head with his legs when he was tackled out of the way—and into the pit.

Monsoon held him by his forelegs, gliding through the air with a considerable, and increasing, drop.

"What are you doing?!"

"Nowhere else to go!" Monsoon cried. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Hold on!"

They broke the surface of the water with force of a hammer beating a nail. Ice-cold water spilled into Flint's mouth and darkness swallowed his vision.

---

Flint woke up thinking that he shouldn't be so dry. His ears perked to the cracking of a fire. He opened his eyes.

He was covered by a thick quilt, embroidered with colorful thread. Monsoon slept beside him, under the same quilt. The high ceiling was flat, made from hewn stone, and perfectly square. A pair of boarded-up windows dominated one wall, with a wooden door opposite it. A small depression served as a fireplace, with a small bonfire burning inside. A pile of wood scraps filled one corner.

Flint stood up. Their saddlebags, along with his crossbow, rested against the wall opposite of Monsoon. He tried to nudge her awake when a metallic click sounded from the door. Flint reached for the strap of his bag.

The door swung open. Shod hooves clopping against the stone floor, a stallion with a long, silvery mane entered. He wore a brown vest embroidered with gold thread. The stallion smiled. "Awake already? Welcome! How was your sleep?"

Flint stared him in the eyes, and tehn looked a little higher. He pulled his knife out of its sheath, leaned forward and, with a single powerful kick, lunged at the stallion, pinning him against the wall.

"No, wait! Stop!" The stallion thrashed about, pushing against the blade Flint pressed to his throat.

Monsoon woke up to the commotion. "Flint?" She rolled on her back and blinked.

Flint lifted his free hoof and grabbed the stub sticking out of the stallion's forehead. "He's a hornhead."

"Yes!" the stallion said. "But one of the sane ones!"

Monsoon grabbed the crossbow from the pile of gear and loaded it.

"Listen here, to the voice of reason, will you?" The hornhead grinned, the corners of his mouth trembling. "If I was dangerous, would I take you into my home and dry you out?"

Monsoon stepped over to Flint's side, crossbow aimed at the hornhead's gut.

"I'm serious! I'm not like those painted-up brutes. Look!" He pointed a hoof at his forehead. "See this?"

"Yeah. You're a hornhead."

"See how small it is?"

Flint looked over the bone grasped in his hoof. It was short and stubby, more cylindrical than conical. The end tapered to a dull half-sphere.

"I'm not like the others. I'm cog-ni-zant. Immune to miasma!"

"To be fair, he did save us, Flint," Monsoon said. "At least let him explain."

Flint held the knife for a moment longer before letting the stallion fall back on his hooves. The hornhead rubbed his neck and smiled.

"Explain."

"We're not all born insane and painted, you know." The stallion touched his horn. "It's all in here, see. Because of the miasma. It drives the adult ones crazy.

"It's everywhere, but only the horn can sense it. Foals have short horns, so they don't feel it, but when it grows out, the miasma just… pushes at it, gives you migraines. With enough time, the hornheads go crazy."

Flint huffed. "And let me guess—you're a freak with an underdeveloped horn?"

The hornhead smiled and nodded. "At least tenth generation. And that's not all."

A glowing purple aura surrounded his horn. A similar cloud formed around the bolt in Monsoon's crossbow. It flew up into the air and hovered before Flint's face, aimed at his eye. Both Monsoon and Flint stared slack-jawed as the glow disappeared and the bolt fell into the hornhead's hoof.

"Miasma manipulation! I can protect myself, mister Flint. But I am patient and forgiving." He offered the bolt to Flint, along with his hoofshake. "Zigzag, archivist, historian, museum curator extraordinare, librarian or whatever else you wish."

Flint stepped away from his outstreched hoof, glaring daggers at Zigzag. Monsoon stepped between them, taking the bolt from Zigzag.

"Thank you, Zigzag. I'm Monsoon, this is Flint. We've come a long way in search of our destination. Would you be so kind as to help us get to Cinderhorn?"

He barked a laugh. "No problem! Come with me."

Zigzag left the room. Monsoon snatched her and Flint's saddlebags and followed after him, Flint trotting behind.

The stone corridor they walked through showed signs of a struggle. Blotches of soot dotted the walls and ceiling. Remains of furniture littered the corners, licks of flame staining wood black. Statues, broken and webbed with cracks, unlike the ones in the caverns, stood beside paintings: burned, warped, cut or otherwise rendered incomprehensible.

Monsoon, walking by Flint's side, pointed a hoof at his chest. "What's that."

Flint looked down. Thin white strands, sparkling with blue, criss-crossed his coat, like the marble webs from the cavern. He scratched one with the edge of his hoof, but it wouldn't come off.

Zigzag led them to a large hall dominated by a mountain of stacked furniture. A beam of yellow light streamed near the ceiling. "This is one of my peep holes. Come, take a look."

Monsoon and Flint climbed the overturned chairs and tables to the hole. Flint winced as the light hit his tired eyes and waited for it to adjust. Monsoon gasped.

Outside, a herd of hornheads camped. they convened around a large bonfire. One of the hornheads beat a steady rhythm on a heavy war drum. Some took grinding stones to their foreheads, sharpening their horns to points. Every single hornhead wore lumpy, red paint in concentric circles and curvy lines, with a single thin streak painted over their mouths, ear to ear.

"We're here," Monsoon whispered.

"Great, what now?" Flint asked.

Monsoon climbed down to the floor. "Why do the hornheads gather in Cinderhorn?" she asked Zigzag. "You've mentioned something called 'miasma'?"

"It's… an emanation." Zigzag scratched his head. "Hard to explain without feeling it. In very high concentrations, you can sometimes see it as a glowing fog inhabiting certain places.

"It attracts hornheads like manure does flies. The pain produced by exposure is excruciating, but the pleasure is on a similar magnitude. The result is that those with sensitive horns paint themselves up and climb down the mountain to raid the countryside."

"But why here?" Monsoon asked.

"It's the tower. It's like a miasma manufacture—the biggest concentration of miasma in… anywhere I know, really. And I own an amazing globe!"

Monsoon's eyes sparkled, a grin spread on her lips. "The tower! I think that's where we were going. Can you tell us anything about it?"

Zigzag laughed. "That's what I'm here for, friend! Come with me, I'll tell you everything!"

He led them through another corridor, deeper into the building. They descended several times, apparently passing through discreetly connected basements. Flint caught up with Zigzag.

"So, the other hornheads tolerate you?"

"Oh, no!" Zigzag waved a hoof. "I don't socialize with those brutes. I just keep them out."

"How?"

"That's another trade secret, I'll show you!" Zigzag winked.

They approached a set of wide double doors, inlaid with gold and malachite. Zigzag's horn glowed once more. The keyhole flashed purple, something clicked inside and the door swung open.

"The doors are mechanical. A set of pins inside keeps the door locked unless they are pushed in a specific way. And since I am the only one who can do it, I can easily keep unwanted visitors out. My grand-grand-grandfather even made all of them lock automatically, by just closing the door." He waved them to come inside and shut the door closed. "I do forget to close the doors sometimes, though…"

The five-sided room was painted yellow and glittered with gold. It was in the candleholders, on the ceiling, lining the corners. Tattered remains of tapestries hung from golden rods. In their place, drawings made from colored chalk and coal adorned the walls.

"Welcome to the history room! Where the most important story in history is preserved, as passed to me by my father, and to him by his father and so on."

Flint approached one of the pictures: a blurry landscape of a green meadow. A yellow sun hung in the clear sky. Mountains lined the horizon. Ponies frolicked on the green grass, with earth ponies and hornheads playing on the ground and pegasi flying in circles above them.

In the center of the meadow, a single mare sat surrounded by ponies, their eyes and ears all turned to her. She sat on her haunches, wings spread in a display of power, horn pointing at the sky.

"Both horn and wings…" Flint whispered.

"Yes, allow me to explain." Zigzag picked up a stick with his miasma and pointed at the picture.

"There once lived a regal pony princess—"

"So she's also a princess?" Flint huffed. "Isn't that a bit too much?"

"No, because that's why she was a princess. It's how they distinguished themselves from the commoners. Anyways.

"There once lived a regal pony princess, ruling equally and fairly over the three pony races. She gained her status on her own merit, not merely through blood, by proving that her wisdom was beyond all limitation. Everypony listened to her.

"And while the princess loved all her subjects, she loved her family and her friends far more. Far, far more."

The sky grew dark and clouded with black squiggles. The sun hid behind the cold mountains. The princess bowed before a row of gravestones, her crown resting on the ground under her.

"And so came the day when her friends had to die."

"They were sick?" Monsoon asked.

"No, they died from old age."

"So she kept friends with ponies half a century older than her?" Flint asked.

"No, she was immortal!"

"Oh, immortal too? Now that is definitely too much."

"You don't understand! She was immortal because she was the leader. We have no immortals left, and so nopony to lead us, and that is why there such chaos in the world! Now, don't interrupt.

"The princess was crushed with grief, for they were her closest friends, the ones that led her to her station and gave her the insight other so hailed in her. But the princess, in her limitless wisdom, had a plan."

The ground disappeared far, far below, until it turned into a single, condensed point of green and blue. The princess flew among the cold white stars, flapping her wings on the torrents of yellow celestial wind.

"She asked the help of the stars. And they responded. They gave her a magic—not entirely clear on what that is—that would help her achieve her dream."

"She wanted to bring her friends back to life?" Monsoon asked.

"No, not exactly. I don't think that even stars can do something like that. Instead, think of it as a final tribute to them."

The princess stood inside a five-pointed star, surrounded by five gems, each the size of her crown. She turned her horn skyward, a glow of miasma clouding around it.

"She asked her subjects for their support, and they answered. How could she be wrong? And so, she arranged the greatest, most powerful magical gems in the kindgdom in a special pattern of power, said the words and—voila!"

"What?" Flint raised an eyebrow.

"We have what we have today. Something obviously went wrong." Zigzag shrugged.

"It explained nothing! You ended the story by stating that you don't know anything!"

Mosnoon walked up to the final painting. She touched the lumpy, dried chalk with a hoof. "I saw this."

Flint turned to her. Zigzag perked an ear.

"This is it!" She turned around, beaming the stallions a smile. "This is where we've to go! It's in the tower, right?"

Zigzag stroked his chin. "Makes sense."

"Can you show us the way? Is there a tunnel we could use?"

"No, the tower is in the ruins of the old castle." Zigzag lit up his horn. A cupboard at the opposite side of the room opened, a scroll of paper flying in a cloud of miasma into Monsoon's hooves. "What you can do is take this map and use it to evade the herds on the streets."

"How?" Flint asked, looking over the map.

"I watch the herds through my peepholes, learn their random ways, count their numbers and their followers. They always move—standing still in one place makes them anxious. I know that they never return to the place where they have just camped before. So, you can use the bonfires and the beat of their drums to judge where you should go. Simply follow the fires that were just extinguished and stay away from the drums announcing their coming."

Flint narrowed his eyes at Zigzag. "What do you mean by 'their followers?'"

"The ones that belong to the herd, but aren't hornheads. Most of them were kidnapped from the countryside. A lot of ponies come looking for them or for revenge. Most die, some end up as followers themselves."

Monsoon and Flint traded looks. He looked over Zigzag again with an appraising eye. She prodded him with a hoof.

Flint gulped down. "Have you seen a… seen an earth pony filly among them? Five years old, green mane?"

Zigzag tapped his horn. "I'm not sure. I don't know, really."

"Her name's Juniper."

"Can't point you in a specific direction, sorry," Zigzag said. "But there are foals among the followers. They tail after teh herds, picking up their scraps and warming themselves by dying fires. If you tail the herds, you will see them."

Monsoon placed a hoof on Flint's shoulder. He nodded, and they returned to studying the map.

---

They made sure that the streets outside were empty and went outside. The door closed shut behind them with a bang. Flint nocked a bolt into his crossbow. Monsoon nervously flapped her wings.

Bonfires dotted the streets, with piles of lumber set against walls. The empty sockets of windows in the houses were ringed with soot. Red graffiti stained the walls, pools of the dried, cracked paint gathering around overturned buckets. Weird twig figures of ponies hung from bare lampposts, swaying in the wind and occasionally chiming with the bones hanging from their hooves. Every roof on every house was burned to a char above a certain height, as if a solid horizontal shadow fell over the city.

In the distance, the charred tower loomed, like a stone spike cooked inside a fireplace, lights flicking in empty windows.

They followed the map, looking for smoking bonfires and listening out for the beating of drums. Figures would sometimes walk in the distance when they caught up, and Monsoon tried her best to see who they were and whether they had neither wings nor a horn. They'd follow the herds closer, but whenever they came within distance, the drums would sound from another street, and they had to run back.

The sun was in zenith when they noted that they've walked on every single street shown on the map.

"This is impossible," Monsoon said, rolling the map again. "We have to try for the tower."

"We can still find her, I know it." Flint took a right turn, watching for billows of smoke in the distance.

"All I'm saying is that it'll probably be easier after we're done with the apple."

"You can't know that," Flint said, hastening his trot.

"Just like you don't know for how long we're going to scour these damn streets."

Flint looked at her with a dark gleam in his eye. "You forget what I came here for?"

"No, Flint! We can still find her—but please, help me out."

Flint cut a corner to another street. "I don't see why you can't leave on your—"

He stopped. The bonfire was unlit. No drums sounded. A crowd of hornheads stood on the street, looking him in the eye. Flint took a step back, bumping into Monsoon. One of the hornheads bared his teeth and shrieked out a warcry. Others picked up, and like a cascading downpour, their shrieks filled the air.

Flint turned around and ran.

They ran through the streets, dodging bonfires and ducking their ears against the rising screams behind them. A drum sounded down the street, and Flint took a turn to the left. More hornheads appeared from an alley, and he took another turn.

"They're herding us!" Monsoon shouted.

The hornheads led them onto a street overlooking a deep gorge. A delapidated bridge, lined with extinguished torhes, led to a crumbled tower. The hornheads approached from three sides, leaving them no choice but the bridge. A large door stood at the end. Flint prayed that it be open and have a way to be barricated from the inside. He burst through the door, shoulder first, and aimed his crossbow.

LIght streamed inside through stained glass windows. The carpet, torn and infused with dust, was as the color of dried blood. On the otehr end, an altar towered upon a dais, painted in red circles and wavy lines to nowhere. Smoking braziers filled with red-hot coals flanked the dais.The hornheads went silent. They stopped at the edge of the door, as if waiting for a signal.

Two ponies stood inside the crosshairs of Flint's crossbow. Zigzag wore bright yellow and blue balls on his vest. His face was bleached with wet chalk, a red line drawn over his mouth, ear to ear. And she stood by his side. Five years old, green hair lacking a pink bow.

The crossbow trembled in Flint's hooves.

"Is that? Oh, no…" Monsoon said.

She took a few steps towards him, prodded by Zigzag's hoof. Her smile looked even wider with the paint on her cheeks. Halfway through the hall, she ran to Flint, giggling and shrieking. He dropped the crossbow on the ground and embraced her.

"Flint! Wait, please!" Monsoon shook him by his shoulder, her eyes darting between Zigzag and the hordes of hornheads behind them. "Can't you see that he is controlling them?!"

Her hair smelled of juniper and strawberries, and she was warm, truly warm by herself. Flint looked with watery eyes at Monsoon. His lips tightened into a line.

"I came for my daughter."

The hornheads burst into a warcry and swarmed into the hallway. Monsoon screamed as they jumped on her, picked her up and carried her away. Zigzag trotted up to Flint, a pot of lumpy red paint hovering near his head.

"Few are lucky to survive, you know."

He passed the container to Juniper. She dipped a hoof into the red goo and smeared it across Flint's face, ear to ear. A pink haze descended upon the room, and the air filled with the mixed scents of chocolate and sweat. Flint stood uo and followed after Zigzag and his daughter.

They led him onto the dais, where Monsoon was tied to the altar as she was captured. A thick gag muffled her cries. Zigzag took a dagger from the folds of his vest and offered it to Flint.

Flint stared at the blade, as if it was the only object in existence. Zigzag stepped to the front of the platform.

"Brothers! Sisters! Today we celebrate the creation of the Vision by Her. We remember Her infinite wisdom and assure that the world She dreamed of will hold strong.

"A world where ponies are strong and in harmony with each other around groves of giving trees. A world where dark forests are not black holes to be avoided, but tranquil, quiet places of beauty. A world where the wind itself protects us from invaders and unwanted guests. Where beauty lasts forever, untouched by the ravage of time. A world united in community and laughter!"

The hornheads cheered. Flint noticed the trails of tears on Monsoon's face. He heard Juniper laugh.

"Let us remember the sacrifices we had to make to create this world in Her image, and let us always remember that whatever suffering or grief we have experienced, She always has but the best of intentions for us in her mind."

A beam of light struck Flint in the eye. He turned around, looking for the source. A piece of stained glass fell from one of the stained-glass windows. In it, six ponies stood under a black mare with both horn and wings, and hair of purple miasma. They smiled, holding each other's hooves even as she reared to trample them.

"Today, we welcome a new brother into our fold, and let him prove himself and give the honors of the day."

Flint lifted the dagger above his head. Monsoon squirmed in her bounds and screamed into her gag. The hornheads whistled. His heart beat in his ears. The Elder sneered from under her wrinkled brows. The dagger was heavy in his hooves. His daughter smelled of juniper and strawberries.

The blade plunged into flesh with a tearing, crunching sound. Juniper screamed. Blood flowed.

Zigzag touched the hilt with a hoof, surprised at the redness of his blood. "Un… ex… pected…"

He fell on the floor. One of the hornheads shrieked their battlecry, the other followed suit. Flint grabbed one of the braziers and toppled it over, spilling burning coals over the stairs and the carpet. He untied Monsoon, took out her gag and pulled her behind the altar.

A narrow door stood ajar. Flint closed it shut behind him, the automatic lock clicking into place. They ran through a narrow side hallway, as the screams behind them rose in volume.

They found an exit onto an alley free from the hornheads. The ground collapsed here, dropping a level below. Drums sounded from down the street.

"We have to get the apple to the tower!" Monsoon cried.

"There are too many of them, you have to escape."

"I'm not leaving you!"

"We can split, they might not catch us if we go separate ways. We'll meet at the tower." Flint pointed into the distance. "You take that way."

When Monsoon turned to look, Flint thrust his hoof into her saddlebag and took out the cloth-wrapped apple with the copper stem. Monsoon's eyes widened as she realized what he was doing. She opened her mouth to protest, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down to the level below.

Monsoon righted herself in the air and glided on her injured wings to a safe landing. She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "Flint!"

"…Goodbye." He turned away and broke into gallop.

He reached old castle, hornheads close in pursuit. Flint crossed the dried moat and ran through the gate in the fallen wall. In the courtyard, hanging from teh side of the mountain, the charred tower stood crumbled.

Flint ran inside, barricading the door with a large piece of rubble. The interior was burnt completely, most walls broken down, fallen boulders littering the halls. A single staircase, mostly intact, led upwards into the tower. The outer wall was full of holes, but a purple miasma filled them, glueing the structure together.

Flint collapsed against the door and caught his breath. "There are no ends to those means…" he said. He took out the golden apple, unwrapped it from the dirty, moist cloth. His face, beaten, scarred and smiling with a red, distorted grin, looked back. "Nothing ever comes from that grove." He let the apple fall to the ground and roll under a piece of masonry. "Grove of Truth… Everything is upside-down."

A sudden pain gripped his head. His teeth rattled. Purple smoke streamed into the room from cracks in the floor, stars whirling inside it. Flint jumped to his hooves and ran to the stairs.

The tower trembled, as if gigantic hooves gripped it from the outside and started shacking. He climbed up, looking out for falling debris.

He reached a platform suspended in the air before a giant hole in the outer wall. He stopped to look down. His heart sank into his stomach.

Hornheads swarmed the ground around the tower, already battering the door. Over them, a massive cloud of purple miasma shaped like a pony hovered in the air, wings unfurled and horn turned skyward. Stars shimmered inside the smoke. Two purple suns burned where the eyes were supposed to be.

A strong blow to his face broke Flint's trance. He spat out a piece of his tooth. Stones, iron bars and broken wood hovered in the air, surrounded by a purple glow. Flint dodged a piece of wood and ran up. On the ground floor, the door wringed from its hinges like a page of a book torn by a storm.

The stairs led to a single door, decorated with stars and slightly ajar. Flint ran inside, closed the door, felt the key sticking out of the key hole and turned it.

A strong prismatic glow filled the air. In the center, five bright gems glowed in tandem, arranged in a star around the biggest, sixth one.

It was impossible to conceive that this room was part of the crumbling tower. A smell of ozone filled the air. The walls were completely intact, with spotles wallpapers the color of the night sky. A large bed stood near the wall, covered with silk blankets embroidered with the moon and stars. Flint noticed the silverware on the cupboards and ducked, but the telekinetic assault never came.

He trotted up to the altar. The air crackled with energy, he felt it in his hooves and his eyes. Flint reached into his saddlebag and took out the pink bow. He brought it to his nose and inhaled, trying to catch the fragrance of strawberries and the dour of juniper through the ozone, the pond scum, the ash, the blood, the smoke and the smell of his own coat.

The key glowed with a purple aura and turned. The door burst open. Flint turned to his side, holding a leg against his face. Something whistled past, and two sharp, burning sensations peirced his torso. For a moment, the world compressed into his stomach and the space between his ribs. He fell to the ground, fletched bolts sticking out of his side.

"Stop, don't shoot! Don't touch the gems! If you move—" Zigzag burst into the room, holding a hoof against his bloodied chest. He grinned.

"It's safe! It's all right!"

Zigzag trotted up to Flint and kicked him in the ribs. He curled on the ground, holding his front hooves closer to his body.

"You've failed! You've achieved nothing! You almost killed me and—" Zigzag tore the silk bow from his hoof.—"you've betrayed your daughter."

Flint mumbled something, spat blood on the floor. Zigzag leaned in, red saliva trickling down his lips, mixing with the lumpy red smile.

"Well, you degenerate bastard? What are you going to say for yourself?"

Flint turned over his hoof.

Zigzag blinked. A tiny shower of sparks disappeared into a paper cylinder.

Flint smiled and closed his eyes. "…Scrapper's tricks."