Pinkie Pie would remember fondly, her sisters’ house burning, leaving nothing for them to come back to. After all, that was their past, an anchor in the old world, a dying world. She carried her sisters quickly from their home and back to camp, having saved them from Sigvald’s wrath. The apothecaries’ low-intensity tents took care of them, washed them off and treated their wounds.

She waited outside with some plates of fruit and vegetables. The Apothecary Magir said her sisters could eat, and might be safe to move. She was ancy, bobbing in place and watching the traffic and goings on of the nurses and patients.

The Magir emerged from the tent, covered in full-body black leathers, and his herbal-mask raised up. He took a breath of fresh air before noticing Pinkie Pie. “You’re lucky you showed up when you did. Any longer and you would have broken the skin, and we might have had to move them to intensive care.”

“But they’re okay?” Pinkie asked.

“A thorough wash, cold compresses, and some painkillers, but they’re fine, and you can take them into your care. No strenuous movement for a few days, and remove the compresses before retiring for the night. Also…” The doctor pulled a bottle from his pocket and rattled it. “The next time you want to pack someone away and not digest them, I recommend some neutralizer antacids. Given the time between ingestion and regurgitation and their condition, you might be looking at two tablets per hour held.”

Pinkie blushed and took the bottle. “Two an hour, th-thank you. And… and...”

Pinkie moved to hug him, but, with a flick of the wrist, the Magir put his indicator stick against the tip of her nose.

“Ap-bab-bap. You don’t know what’s on my cloak and how you might transmit it.” He looked up at the full moon and gestured to the tent. “Get them gone by tomorrow morning. I have some skin wolves transforming tonight.”

Pinkie waved him off, took a deep breath, and entered the tent. The smell of counterseptic hit her nose hard. She navigated the beds and resting patients to her sisters in their cots.

First came Limestone, looking intently forward that she might burn a hole in the wall with just a glare. Maud came next, stiff in her movements and refusing to make eye contact after she saw Pinkie coming. She wore the merest hint of a frown, and Pinkie had never seen her so miserable. Marble was shivering, despite the blanket wrapped around her. The meek mare glanced at Pinkie out of the wiry remnants of her mane, as if staring too long might provoke candy creature. All three were covered in acid burns between their bandages and compresses. Their fur was worn thin and patchy, exposing raw skin discolored from stewing in Pinkie’s stomach for too long.

“Hey, girls!” Pinkie sang, setting the plates next to each of them. “I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday, so I thought I’d put together a little something for your first day here!”

Maud didn’t look at Pinkie, but picked up her plate with a curt ‘Thanks’. Limestone immediately bit an apple in half, and Marble just stared at her plate.

“It’s just some food, Marble,” giggled Pinkie. “It won’t bite.” Marble spared a sideways glance at her sister. Pinkie could see it in her eyes.

But you do.

“Well, I’m not sure where to start,” Pinkie said, sitting in the middle of them and tossing a lettuce head in the air. “You guys must have questions, right Marble?”

Marble squeaked and pulled the blanket tighter around herself.

“Why’d you take us here?” asked Limestone coldly.

“Oh, good one! Sigvald and his troops were gonna murderize you guys for throwing boulders at them, so I had to make you stop before they did. They were dead set on setting you dead, so om-nom-nom, and I rushed back here.”

“That reminds me,” said Maud, “I had Boulder with me when you ate us. You destroyed my clothes so he’s probably still in your stomach. He’s a silicate-based trap rock, so he should be acid-resistant.

Now that she mentioned it, Pinkie felt a small lump at the bottom of her gut, chalky and indistinct from her sisters’ lingering aftertaste.

“So where exactly is ‘here’?” asked Limestone.

With a burp and cough, Pinkie spat an unremarkable grey stone into her claw and handed it to Maud. “Just north of Bokenhof, I think. It took maybe a half hour to get back here.”

“You move fast, Pinkie. A half hour could take you to another country for all we know.”

“The crossing of the Ostroad,” One of the passing nurses put in. “Bokenhof is about six miles south.” The sisters glared at him. He’d lowered his mask, and was just a man. Not a mutant or monster. He looked to Pinkie. “These are captives? Slaves to one of the lords?”

“Buck off,” growled Limestone.

The nurse put his mask on and hurried away.

Pinkie cast a glance around at the curious looks Limestone’s remark attracted. “Don’t be so mean.”

“Or what? What’s he gonna do? What did you do? You said you’d fix this!”

Pinkie thought, picking an apple from her plate. “Well… things changed.” Striped tendrils lashed form her lips, yanking the fruit into her mouth. She didn’t swallow, but the feelers simply pulled it down her throat. “People are going through alot right now, and I wanna bring back some laughter, and help as many hurt people as possible.”

“We’re not laughing,” Maud said pointedly. She cleaned Boulder as best she could with a napkin, though it was still slick with slime.

“I know, I know!” Pinkie pulled her mane back. “But! But but but, you’re safe now, and the doctor said you’re free to move, so I can take you to my quarter, get your stuff that Sigvald doesn’t take for himself from the house moved in and it’ll be just like home in Equestria! You can keep up the family business and It'll be just like normal! Just like home!”

Pinkie squealed and bounced about the tent as the realization dawned on her. Somehow, she didn’t land on anyone with her eyes shut, and she seemed to ignore the nurses’ calls for quiet.

The Pie sisters silently exchanged knowing glances before Pinkie swept them all up and left the tent, going on about sleepovers and making them comfortable in their new home, despite their protests.

The elector’s palace in Hergig commanded an impressive view of the countryside and cityscape. Hochland’s rolling hills stretched on like a green ocean, frozen in time.

A spotted martial eagle landed in the mail coop, receiving a treat of fresh rabbit meat in return for a scroll with the Reiksmarshall’s seal.

On a balcony overlooking the outer suburbs, Celestia and Karl Franz waited for Ditto. Throughout the morning they’d reviewed messages and pending orders for the Empire. Mobilization authorizations, transit rights between provinces, conscription numbers, new regiments to be founded with that manpower, factory and farm outputs, records of cult activity, terrorism, and suppression. Then came complaints from merchants and unions for the ‘disruption’ in business from commandeering of trains and horses, and the sacrifices to be made for the war effort. Rationing, taxes, nationalization of rock farms for raw material. A strike that grew into a riot had already seen a factory in Teupitz burned in the chaos.

A letter from Reiksmarshall Shining Armor came as priority. Heffengen held, but at a heavy cost. Luna was injured, but lives, the Undead under Nightmare Moon intervened, the third intervention of the vampires, and the Archenemy hadn’t launched another full assault since.

Celestia and Franz broke conversation when a pigeon landed on the stone railing with an onyx scarab in its beak.

“Ditto?” asked Franz.

The bird twitch-nodded.

“You’re late. Celestia, if you please.”

On a thought, Celestia’s horn flared with golden light. A shimmering veil closed around the three, a noise-light shield for their private discussion.

“My apologies, your highness,” said Ditto, shuffling off the rail with feathers burning away to his true form, “but the subject has found it difficult to accept our medium.”

Celesta sniggered. “Culture shock, I’m sure.”

Ditto pushed in the scarab’s head in as he put it on the floor. It’s wings popped open and its green jade interior projected a vaporous image between the three. Distortion settled, and buzzing noise tuned to a sighing voice.

“-it is. Ah, and there they are.”

The man on the other side was darkly handsome, with a face of high nobility. His accent was a thick drawl; Kislevite, perhaps, but more exotic. He laughed, “The wonders of the future. Do you all know me?”

“Vlad von Carstein,” said Celestia, glowering at him suspiciously. “First of the name, and current occupier of Drakenhof Castle.”

“Close enough.” Vlad turned to Franz. “You must be the Emperor in this day and age. I’ve read up on the histories while I was absent, and I must say, you do men like Wilhelm proud.” Vlad turned to Celestia and noticeably winced, ever so slightly. “And the pony princess… charmed.”

“What do you want, vampire?” Franz prompted tersely.

“I want what you want," Vlad responded without missing a beat. "For the Empire to stand, and the enemy destroyed.”

“And having the Supreme Patriarch removed moves toward that?”

Vlad raised a brow. "You refer to Balthazar Gelt, yes? What do you mean by 'removed'?"

"He gave up your name during interrogation." Franz's tone was flat, and uncompromising. "And he had a few choice words about how you attempted to meddle with the Bastion. And attempted to recruit him into being your thrall."

Vlad stared at him, his expression gradually settling into something of a resigned frown. "I hope you're not suggesting I taught him the dark arts, Karl Franz," he responded. "He is a man of some character; I doubt he would have even considered the offer if he hadn't taken up the books on his own. They held great knowledge, and he held great fear." Regret tinged his tone at the last.

"And your motivation?" Franz pressed. "Altruism? Saving him from that fear, or saving your kind from persecution for black magic in the bounds of the Empire?"

"For which the punishment is surely an ignominious death, so much so that only one's fleas would mourn them," Vlad finished. "Yes, believe it or not, that was one reason. You and I are alike in one way, Franz; we both detest waste. He chose to pursue his studies in Altdorf… but in the libraries and laboratory facilities of Drakenhof?" He allowed himself a rueful chuckle. "Perhaps we could have created something even greater than my father-in-law’s colossus."

Silence followed his remark. Celestia glanced sidelong at the Emperor, finding his features creased in a disapproving frown. She raised a hoof as if to take a step towards Vlad, only to stop when she noticed him flinch away from her, seemingly on instinct. Celestia gently returned her hoof to the floor, and cleared her throat.

"Speaking of great powers, and great magic… I couldn't help but notice, von Carstein, that just as your host arrived and joined battle at the Bastion, the sky became darkened by an eclipse."

Vlad had kept his eyes mostly on Franz as she spoke, but now, he afforded her a glance of his own. It was a knowing kind of look, accompanied by a slight, awkward tilting of the lips in amusement. He wasn't considering her; merely something that had relation to her.

"That wasn't a coincidence, was it?" she muttered darkly. "We'd heard rumors, before… and then, as Franz has told me, a certain name was on one of your first letters, in a place of honor by yours, no less. And I doubt you've any mage among you who can muster power that strong, least of all while maintaining your existing forces."

The vampire lord didn't reply, though his head shifted almost imperceptibly to the side. He was curious, and waiting for her to finish.

Celestia obliged him. "It's Nightmare Moon after all," she said, letting a hint of a seething rasp into her tone at the name. "And not merely helping you in spellcraft… but also, it seems, actively leading your legions of damned souls on the field."

Vlad's eyelids climbed up a fraction, and his lips parted, making him look caught between wanting to rebuke her or compliment her logic. "We don't--"

"I wanted to thank you, first of all," she pre-empted him. "For saving my sister. Indirect as it was. I don't know what force you hold over that daemon's head, but..."

He turned his head, and stared, more squinted, as though looking into the sun, at her. A bemused huff escaped his throat. "She's been helpful," he said simply. "And while I'd usually leave it at that, it's somewhat refreshing having her voice in my court, if only for the grief she causes for some of the more...traditionalist among my fellow Counts. That in and of itself is valuable, as well," he raised a palm, graying yet manicured fingers splayed, and laid it over his chest, "since I firmly believe that a war of this scale cannot be won by only following past habits."

Celestia knew a political segue when she heard one. Franz beat her to the punch, however, clearing his own throat.

“And the past is closer to you than us. It must be frustrating, waking up at home with the last thing you remember being falling from your greatest triumph at Altdorf’s walls, and being told it’s a new century. That your legacy is a novel memory as the court has moved on without you. As for your request for Sylvania's reintegration, if our silence wasn’t enough, let me say it, all stipulations are wholly rejected. Our existing alliance with the Dwarfs precludes any direct cooperation. The Karaz Ankor would end our millennial pact, and I feel the Book of Grudges is a more binding document than anything you and us could write.”

“Then we don’t have to agree on anything,” Vlad growled. The memories were still fresh, and there was the faintest flicker, or shift in his face to something not entirely human. “The Empire and Sylvania are co-belligerent in this war. That is reality, and the Dwarfs are too preoccupied with greenskins and Skaven to notice. Can you afford to make more enemies in these times? Or can you see the benefits?

“I have at my disposal a labor force of limitless number and inexhaustible stamina. Tell me, Franz, Celestia. I understand we disagree on the details, but what would you do with an army of automatons, tireless and utterly obedient? You build wonders, free your citizens from menial work and put them to greater things. We have limitless industrial potential, mines that run deep, and the labor to exploit it. Will you take the aid?”

Franz and Celestia exchanged looks.

“You will recall Nightmare Moon from the north, then your offer will be considered.” said Celestia. “Her presence will stir panic. It was not so very long ago she was active in the Empire's borders, as I've… recently discovered." Her face twisted, creasing in lines of disgust and revulsion. "We've heard word of her exploits, before, that I didn't want to believe were true."

Vlad quirked an eyebrow in her general direction, still trying to not quite look directly at Celestia. "And what might those be?"

"Child sacrifice, for one," she spat.

For a moment, the vampire lord's face remained impassive; but Celestia could see a frown tinging the corners of his expression. Vlad clicked his tongue thoughtfully, and sighed. "Archaic, barbaric, and a complete waste." He glanced upwards, staring at nothing. "Much better to let them grow, at least for their blood, and then only as needed… and failing that, become hardworking citizens of the realm; in life, or in death."

Celestia glowered at the vampire. "So, I suppose… you have your own problems to deal with, trying to bring so much together, yet having to turn a blind eye to everything else to make it happen."

Vlad sniffed, and bobbed his head in a nod. "Perhaps…" Then, his eyes lowered, looking back to the approximate space between her and Franz. "But we're not so different there, are we? Don't think I haven't heard plenty about you, O Goddess of the Sun." He said the last with unhidden derision. "Always trying to do the best for your own… seeking to protect them, give them a home, a purpose, even amongst humans, who might otherwise see you as little more than an exotic curiosity for a zoo."

"I love my people, and will do anything to see them live, and thrive," Celestia retorted in a terse, measured voice. "Even if that means allying myself with those who don't exactly share our ideals, and who some of us might claim as 'archaic' and 'barbaric' themselves."

Next to her, Franz awkwardly cleared his throat. “But we look past those differences, and know that we all stand on the side of order. Even Elves and Dwarves can put aside the War of Vengeance when a mutual foe approaches.”

Vlad, seeming to ignore him, looked fully at Celestia, with something akin to grudging respect in his gaze. "And you've thus sacrificed so, so much… all for this, a life of eternal war and hardship," he said. "Tell me… was it worth it?"

"It will be," she stated firmly. "You'll notice I didn't use the politically correct word, 'survive'. And while that may have been what we've done -- what we've had to do, these past years -- all you have to do is look around you, at the changing world, at the marvels that peace and cooperation between such different races as ours can bring to it. And, come the Storm, we will bring them down upon our enemies. I am fully intent on proving, not to you, or the Everchosen, or even the Gods, but to this world, that there is hope, and that it is worth fighting for."

Vlad clapped slowly. “I advise saving such words for mortals who might be more receptive to a good uplifting platitude, but we are in agreement. The tree that does not bend in the storm is uprooted and destroyed. We all must bend under this pressure, or shatter. On the subject of our… mutual acquaintance, I’ve orchestrated these interventions merely for your attention. Nightmare Moon will return, and, as a gesture of goodwill, I offer eight-thousand blades, arriving in Kubel in three days.”

Franz waved a hand. “You have your answer. Go.”

The image of Vlad laughed as it disintegrated, and Celestia released the light cone.

“We have agents in Sylvania who have seen their work,” Ditto piped up. “They’re mobilizing legions of the dead to work, and they have turned rock farming to a factory practice. I will not pretend to fully understand your culture, your majesties, but these are extreme circumstances.”

Celestia sighed and rubbed her temples. “The indignity of it all. It’s like a dog negotiating with its fleas.”

“Well, see it from the fleas’ point of view,” Franz chuckled. “If the dog dies, what will they do?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The peace around sleeping village of Regensdorf was broken one night by a loud and rising buzz that seemed to draw closer. The night watchmen raised an alarm, stirring the residents to prepare for a raid. Yet as the sound faded into the distance, and no sign of attack was seen, the villagers remained on alert. They would not be caught unawares.

Queen Chrysalis felt Balthasar Gelt clinging to her. He was used to the saddle and harness of his loyal pegasus, Quicksilver. Now, the Changeling queen was carrying him like a babe while flying against the blackness of the night sky. Gelt risked a look down. Regensdorf was a small collection of lights among the black lake of dense woodland.

“Are we there, yet?” he asked for the third time. Chrysalis ignored him for the third time.

The air-sucking beat of her wings came to a sudden stop, and she held him closer, her four arms shielding him from debris as they glided down through the forest canopy. Branches broke against the Queen’s bulk and momentum, and she came to a running stop on the ground.

“We’ve arrived.” she said, setting him on his feet. Before Gelt could stretch his legs from the hour-long flight, Chrysalis knelt down, and blinded him with a camera flash. The Equestrian-made machine spat out a slip of paper that quickly developed to Gelt's likeness.

“I’ll need material from you. to make this work. Saliva, hair, nail clipping, what can you give?”

Rubbing his eyes, Gelt swooned, disillusioned. “I don’t deserve this, to keep going on. The nobles want me dead, and you said you’d give them what they wanted.”

“And they’ll get it. Balthasar Gelt must die for confidence in the Colleges of Magic to be restored. And, Gregor Seigel,” Chrysalis poked him in the chest, nearly knocking him off his feet, “will succeed where the Patriarch failed. Think of this as being born again. You’ve repented your crime wholeheartedly, now atone with a new name, and pay the Empire back. Give me a bit of yourself if you want to live.”

Gelt glanced down at the picture for a moment, then his eyes rose back to Chrysalis' own. "Do you truly believe you can fool them all so easily?" he asked.

The Queen's face darkened. "It worked well enough for you, O great Gold Wizard of Chamon."

His chin rose a fraction. "That was you?"

“Your Emperor was easy enough to mimic, especially given all the time I’ve observed him," she remarked, waving a claw dismissively.

"Fair point," Gelt murmured. "But you're talking about tricking the entire Empire now, you realize."

"Is this concern, or academic curiosity I hear?" she riposted, a seething, yet amused arch to her tone. "I've been doing this for a long, long time. This is just another formula. We have an audience that wants to believe something. And we, that is to say, I, can give them exactly that. The larger the throng, the louder the cries for blood; until it drowns out even a fleeting interest in knowing the reality. They must be placated."

"And the Inquisitors?" he persisted. "They are not so easily…"

Chrysalis silenced him with a knowing smirk.

He huffed in bemusement. "I see." Gelt took the picture, and reached up to the ridge of his gold mask. "Good hunting, then… and thank you." With that, Gelt lifted his mask up, and spat on the picture.

Chrysalis could only look down on him, and never saw his face. She stuck the picture up on the nearest tree and ignited her horn in a boiling green glow. The tree began to creak and wilt, swelling at its base with green flames licking out of its cracks. It erupted like a bomb of splinters, and as the smoke cleared, a nude man collapsed out of the smoking ruins of the tree, dripping with sap. Chrysalis carelessly raised up his coughing head, twisting it left and right to study his features.

She nodded in approval. “You used to be a handsome man, Balthasar.”

Chrysalis changed form to her inquisitor’s disguise, and picked up the spluttering Gelt clone, holding his hands behind his back. “Hiding in a swamp, Gelt? Are you truly that desperate?”

The clone snarled, having found his breath, and thrashed uselessly as Chrysalis put cuffs on his wrists. “It’s too late, flesh-blister. The Bastion’s fallen, and the Empire will burn!”

“Silence, heretic! Gregor, gag him.”

Gelt noticed something squirming in his pocket, and fished out a strip of cloth. Before applying it, he stroked a gloved hand across his mask, turning its composition from gold to silver. It was making sense now. Before coming to the woods, Chrysalis had him discard his patriarchal robes for a laborer's grey burlap smock and sackcloth trousers. Combined with his mask, he looked like an executioner, sans the axe.

Chrysalis put the clone over her shoulder like a boar freshly caught. “Come, Gregor. We’ll find lodging in Regensdorf for the night; shouldn’t be too far from here. Time for this traitor to face justice.”

Whispering voices and emotional soulstuff passed over Rarity’s body of light. Fluttering images and the aftershocks of life grazed the soulform, giving her pangs of what their progenitors felt. The roiling mass of thoughts and feelings seemed to stretch into eternity, originating from peoples and species she’d never imagined.

She sifted through the vast information for some nuggets of usefulness, a past to take into account, or things to come. Despite the feelings trying to worm into her mind, she had to control her own flaring thoughts.

Predators swam the currents of the Warp, attracted to the energies of mortal minds. The trivial thoughts of layfolk were but sparks and beneath their notice, but the wizard, the warp-touched, glowed bright. While she worked, Rarity kept herself emotionally passive, shrouded by a veil of psychic dampening. Still, one entity was near.

A boiling dark purple cloud drifted nearby, bearing the outline of alicorn. It orbited listlessly, like a deep-sea creature conserving energy in the empty expanse, or perhaps basking in what miniscule energy leaked through the Rarity’s veil.

Rarity sifted through another thread of reality, teasing out a desert, rolling, unending, and… a burning stone sphynx. A Khemrian war construct alight with green flames. Skeletal warriors jumped out of its howdah and stood back as its rocky exterior sprouted purple fur, its eyes turned yellow, looking down with a lust for domination.

A crack of thunder broke Rarity’s concentration, and the thread dissolved into the sea of thoughts.

A storm was blossoming in the warp. Sounds of hate and slaughter echoed from it with ten thousand voices as it rippled and tore at the unspace. Predators emerged from the void, partaking in the energies of the murder making, and consuming the souls of the slain.

It caught the attention of the cloud nearest Rarity. It stared at the feeding frenzy, growling and drooling.

Don’t, Rarity thought, but feared to voice it. She considered abandoning the venture and returning to her body, but it took time to get in, and more to recover once returned. Just a couple more threads to make this worthwhile.

One of the next four was interesting, ships of tattered sails and scabby hulks drifted toward an island castle. The number of vessels was impressive, easily a battlefleet on a long campaign. The leader was laden with a rickety hellhammer cannon with ‘Queen Bess’ embossed on the barrel. They sailed toward the sunrise, headed east.

Another crack, much closer now, shook Rarity. Before she could look up, the storm was upon her. Iridescent clouds of impossible colors battered the veil, which only lasted a second before shattering.

The psychic screams of the battle washed over her like a hurricane of razor blades. Predators howled, snapping jaws at the morsels. One such beast came straight for her, a semifluid worm of meat and sinew, a million blinking eyes coated its body like glistening foam. As it opened its lamprey maw, Rarity saw her end, her mind to be snuffed out to feed the creature and body left a vegetative husk.

A shot of bright energy knocked it off course, and it vanished into the currents. The inky alicorn bit down on her arm and yanked her away from more of the massing predators.

Rarity struggled to concentrate, she couldn’t take her eyes off the amorphous mass of vicious tendrils and snapping mouths that chased the alicorn and the bright light it carried. She felt herself returning to flesh, the sound of her heartbeat, Spike’s voice nearby. Her body of light began to fade.

A lash of muscle and teeth reached her, severing her leg at the knee in a glassy shatter.

“They’re still busy, but I think they’re near a breakthrough.” Spike said, and a goat-headed hybrid jotted down his words. “Take this to your master. They’re fully aware of the need for a report today, and they’re working diligently to deliver.”

The creature scribbled a bit more, and nodded to Spike, snorting and shuffling away.

Spike shut the door, returning to the meditation chamber. His breath misted in the sub-zero air, and his footsteps crunched on pure frost that encrusted every surface of the room. Rarity and Twilight Sparkle sat opposite each other, bone marrow claws holding hooves, and they both looked to the ceiling with blackened pits for eyes. They were surrounded by a frozen-over ritual circle. The candles had gone out when they took their dive into the empyrean, and Spike relit them with his own breath, casting the room in green light.

He sat to one side of them, watching their subtle movements. At first, he was reluctant to sit in on this episode of witchcraft. Magic was one thing, he knew of magic, but this seemed more sinister, and the stink of the less-refined warp magic was almost nauseating. He’d also had to delay talks with Orgon Styrbjorn about his future place in the Goromandy. But that could wait for a while at least, since his lady needed him.

The first sign that the bond between Twilight and Rarity was over was Rarity suddenly letting go of Twilight’s hooves. In the time it took Spike to blink, they were repulsed in opposite directions by some unseen force. Spike leapt into action, collected his shield and sword, and made ready for whatever might have come back with them.

The distortion in realspace abruptly expired, letting bounce on the ground an eye the size of a golf ball, and six human teeth.

Spike sighed in relief and moved to help Rarity, as Twilight was already getting up. The sorcerer was still on the floor, moaning and holding her left knee. He helped her sit up, and asked what was wrong. Her leg didn’t appear to have anything amiss.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Twilight didn’t know why her presence was demanded for the report. Rarity could speak well enough and was a salespony once, so she was familiar with compiling documentation of sales.

Weakly, Rarity related her findings. The ghost ships, the burning sphynx, and the battle-storm of Marienburg.

“And last, Marienburg burns,” she said weakly, leaning on a crutch, papers in the other hand. “The Imperial Navy is scattered, but they inflicted significant losses on Spume’s fleet. I’d like to return to the derelict fleet. They may be indicative of retribution in the future. One of the ships had a most tremendous cannon called Queen Bess. Does the name strike with anypony? Lord Horstmann?”

Horstmann nodded. “Luthor Harkon’s prized weapon. He’s had many a run-in with the Skeggi in Lustria. Perhaps he comes to plunder the Old World while it burns. Lot of good that will do him.”

“It will do him good,” Archaon growled. He shifted in his throne, glancing up at Horstmann. “He’s a creature of many minds, and seeks artifacts to heal himself. However unlikely he may acquire them, there are artifacts abound in Altdorf’s underground vaults, including a book of Nagash, and his crown. The von Carsteins must be ingratiating themselves with the Empire for access as well. Rarity, you and Spike will send a message to Spume to accelerate his plans. I want him in Scheinfeld in five days, heavy equipment or no, and provide copies of your findings to the Cabal.

Rarity bowed as far as her support would allow her. “Yes, lord.”

“Then you are all dismissed, but Sparkle, a word.”

Horstmann and Rarity left with Spike in tow, discussing the implications of soul-injury in the Warp, and how long it might take for the mind to regrow into the flesh.

Archaon moved to look out a window, beckoning Twilight to join him. “You fear for her safety.”

“It was close. And I know why the monsters' predators wanted her. She’s… intoxicating.”

Far below, a million tiny figures went about their daily duties and routines. Drilling, training up new recruits, seamstresses repaired tents and clothes, blacksmiths repaired and forged new and old weapons, and warriors conversed and joked over bowls of gruel around fire pits.

“What is your understanding of the governance of an army?” asked Archaon.

“My time under Celestia’s wing taught me that statecraft and ruling a kingdom is far more complex than most can imagine. It must be like the intricacies of a national economy, all the different industries and people working in seemingly unrelated concert to make the whole function.”

“Then she’s taught you well. A war needs tools at every level, and Rarity is one such tool. Communications, intelligence, the magically possessed are valuable assets and should be protected, as you’ve done. And they must be allowed the time necessary to recover from their work when time can be afforded. But there are always risks, and what Rarity suffered was getting off lightly. Do you understand?”

Twilight’s ears pinned down. “I do, sir.”

“There are good warriors I’ve lost I would have given much else to save. I bought the Slayer of Kings with the life of Ograx the Great, so brave he lifted the finger of Krakanrok the Black to retrieve the sword. But then the daemon in the blade screamed, Krakanrok stirred, and it had to be slaked with his royal blood to save the rest of us. Look there.”

Archaon pointed to Fluttershy, held in scaffolding and being tended to by hundreds of scurrying ratmen. Her repairs looked to be nearly done.

“I’ve learned of the pain she’s suffered to protect you. Know, one day even her strength will fail, and none will be able to save her, be it this war, or the next, or in a thousand years. Until then, I intend to use her to the full extent of her abilities. I feel service with the Blood Pact would be most productive. They’re up and coming, and show good promise.”

He glanced at Twilight for the first time since the meeting began. “You’re dismissed.”

Twilight bowed as Archaon strode away. She looked back out the window, watching the tiny people working. A column of joggers was snaking through alleys and gaps between tents. At the head was an ugly man-creature, and second was an unmistakable pony of many colors.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Hargo’s training regimen didn’t seem to run on days, but by ‘can’t see to can’t see’. Rainbow Dash thought the man ran on pure spite. Deep into Retraining, Rainbow felt she’d missed too much. She was itching to get out from under him, back to the Company.

The morning run took them on a three mile run for the humans, and five for the ponies. Rainbow Dash’s athletic history gave her a marked advantage, but Hargo was certainly insane. Once the humans were done, Hargo kept going with the ponies. He didn’t seem to pant or gasp, hell, Rainbow Dash couldn’t hear him breathe despite being right behind him.

“Last leg, scalps! On the right. Find an instructor and get shooting.”

A firing range was set up on the camp’s edge with the humans already taking their shots. In line for a weapon, Rainbow Dash walked in place to come down from the run, her hooves feeling ready to crack.

That was no workout, that was a bucking death march.

Early in the detail, a jokester who took to the name Snake started giving everyone in R-detail nicknames. At first no one went along with it, until it was found useful to not exactly know each other by name once the detail was over. Everyone wanted to just go back to their tribe or unit. The boy before Rainbow in line was ‘The Mountain’, a scrawny lad barely old enough to shave.

“Next!”

Mountain quickly fiddled with his weapon as soon as it was in his hands, expertly working the revolving drum and hammer for the feel.

“Next!”

Rainbow took her weapon, a griffon-made rifle, exquisitely machined, and inscribed with chicken scratch of kill tallies on the butt.

“Lane twelve,” the handler grumbled, pushing her on.

Rainbow found and settled into her spot. Every part of her ached, her mind was almost numb with exhaustion. She shouldered the rifle, wingtip caressing the trigger. She inhaled, feeling the cold, dry burn in her overworked lungs, and pulled the trigger.

The drill ended after some twenty minutes. Shot after shot she readjusted and compensated for previous off-mark hits. R-detail lined up for score evaluation, hoping to hear the magic passing score of sixty-eight after their name.

“Jurten Voss, sixty-four, Whispy Winter, seventy. Indolaf Skarsenson, eighty. Rainbow Dash, eighty-six…”

Rainbow let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and fought off a rush of lightheadedness.

Hargo stopped before The Mountain. “Explain this.”

“Sir?”

“This.” Hargo pointed to the his score. “One hundred and six? Impossible. Who did you bribe? Who was your instructor?”

“I didn’t cheat, sir. The scale goes to a hundred and twenty-”

“Then how did you manage it, soft little beanpole like you?”

Rainbow glanced down the line at Mountain. Maybe he’d shot before, hunting experience. But the boy hesitated and swallowed.

“Luck, sir?”

Hargo responded with a baton to the sternum, and continued his assault as he went down. Some members of the detail winced, but kept their silence.

“Feeling lucky now, scalp? Luck’ll get you free of me?”

“Hey!”

Hargo paused, white-knuckling the blood-stained baton in the air over The Mountain. Rainbow Dash had broken rank and was staring him down furiously.

“You’re way too happy with that stick. What kind of idiot punishes someone for getting it right?”

Hargo straightened up, and marched toward Rainbow Dash. She stood her ground and inclined her head to the sky. “That’s right. I spoke out of line. Dish out punishments to people who actually deserve it.”

Hargo stopped, sighed, and hooked the baton back onto his belt. She was taking the sport out of it.

"Get back in line, and someone pick this shit-stain off the floor."