Fallout Equestria: Homelands

By Somber

Chapter 14: Fact and Fiction

“Okay, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I actually preferred the razor grass!” Scotch complained as the six friends struggled to carefully maneuver the Whiskey Express over a waist-high fallen tree that spanned the Old Road. Once they’d crossed the pass east of Greengap, the terrain had become more rocky and wooded, and the route was scattered with trees that had tumbled across the Old Road. People better prepared than they had cut the dark oaks with axes, but Precious’s claws proved to be an ill substitute.

“Shut up and push!” Skylord grunted. The branches they’d tried to fashion into a ramp had given way, leaving the steam tractor high-centered over the log. Now they were using levers and brute force to hoist it over enough that the back wheels could push it the rest of the way clear, hopefully without jostling it too much.

Funny, Scotch thought, in all our months in the Hoof, Blackjack never had to deal with something as simple as getting a stuck tractor over a tree. It was somehow refreshing, though it didn’t make throwing all her weight on a tree branch lever any easier. They needed to get moving. The dense wood surrounded them on all sides, with high, gray granite peaks to the north and south. Rain clouds swirled overhead, and they’d been hearing thunder somewhere west of them.

“Gun it!” Precious snarled, putting her back into heaving the Whiskey Express up and forward. Majina, perched in the driver’s seat, pulled the throttle and sent the elevated wheels spinning perilously close to both Skylord and Precious’s heads. The wheel bit into the bark, but just stripped it away and flung it backwards towards the trailer. Which we still haven’t gotten over this stupid tree! Charity shielded their supplies with her magic, deflecting the wood shrapnel aside. She grit her teeth, levitating another branch under the spinning wheel and trying to give it enough traction to push the tractor over the trunk. After being chewed up for a few seconds the branch splintered and split in two. The Whiskey Express groaned as it settled back in place.

“Argh! Stupid trees!” Precious said with a snarl, stamping at it with her hind leg. More bark tore off the dead oak and she toppled over, sprawling on her face. The chunk of bark landed firmly on her head and her blue eyes bulged. “That’s it!” she roared, scrambling to her feet. “You’re toast!”

She drew in a great breath and belched a gout of brilliant emerald flame at the offending lumber, but the dark clouds overhead chose that exact moment to unleash a great sheeting downpour, drenching them and extinguishing her fiery assault in a puff of steam before it could so much as blacken the wood. Her snake-slitted pupils narrowed and she tried again and again, with no effect other than an imitation of the stranded tractor. She sat and let out a strangled scream of impotent rage.

“Told you,” Pythia intoned from a shelter beside the road, a large knob of granite that erosion had hollowed out into a dry pocket. She was crouched next to a small fire, studying the atlas, her star map, and some of the papers from the fort while sipping from a cup of tea. “Get out of the rain and wait. We’re not going to get that thing moving any time soon.”

Soaked, sweaty, and annoyed, Scotch trotted under the arch. Someone had actually carved a hole through the ceiling, letting smoke trickle up to be scattered by the branches. “You could help, you know,” Scotch puffed as the others followed her. “We can’t just leave it stranded.”

Pythia gave her a level gaze. “First, I am helping. I’m keeping an eye on the future. We don’t get it over on our own, and some of us get hurt if we keep trying. Secondly, help is somewhere around here.” She tapped the map. “Betelgeuse said so.”

“Suits me,” Skylord muttered, shaking himself hard, his wet plumage puffing out in all directions. “I need to oil my guns.” He shuffled off to the back of the alcove, turning his back on the others as he detached and serviced one of his automatic rifles.

“How much longer till we go south?” Charity asked. “The sooner we get out of these woods, the better.”

“Not for some time,” Pythia said as she opened the atlas. “We’re lucky the Old Road doesn’t go anywhere near Slaughterhouse. And whoever those other mercenaries were, they don’t know where we’re going, and there’s a dozen different routes they’d have to patrol. Irontown was a pretty obvious destination, but from here we can go southwest to Bastion, west to Equestria, or northwest to the coast.”

“We can get home from here? Sweet. Let’s get going,” Charity stated with a nod. “I’ll treat you all when we get back to the Hoof. Five… no… seven percent discounts!”

“We’re not going back to Equestria,” Scotch flatly asserted.

Charity scrunched up her face. “Ten percent!”

“No.”

“Fifteen. More than that and you may as well rob me.”

“You do know that robbing you is a hundred percent discount, right?” Precious asked.

“You’d have to earn robbing me, trust me,” Charity growled. “There’d be expenses.” She took a deep breath. “Fine. Why can’t we just go back?”

“It’d be a pretty obvious thing to do. We’d have to go over Shattered Hoof Ridge, and that’d be a challenge all by itself. Plus, it’s still a long way, and we’re stuck. I don’t know how we’d get another Atoli ship to take us back by sea, and there’s always Riptide to consider. I suspect if we get close, she’s going to track us down.”

“Also, even if they suspect we’re going to Roam, there’s more than one way to get there,” Pythia informed them. “The shortest goes across the Western Empty, but there’s at least three more passes we could theoretically take. The most obvious would be to get on a train to Bastion, but I doubt there’s a station around here that isn’t crawling with Blood Legion too.”

“Is Bastion controlled by a legion? Should we go there?” Majina asked, looking to Skylord.

The griffon snorted. “Bastion? No. It’s a free city, like Rice River. The free city if you ask them.”

“Wonder why they weren’t taken out like Greengap,” Scotch mused.

Skylord suddenly snickered. “Fuck, I’d give a wing to watch them try. If you saw it, you’d know. It’s right there in the name: Bastion’s a frigging fortress. Even more than Irontown. You know how ponies had that one city the zebras were always attacking? Hoofingstone or something? Well Bastion was the zebras’ Hoofingstone. Ponies hit it with everything, including a megaspell, and it still kept on going.”

“If they’re that great then how come the zebralands are such a mess?” Majina asked.

“Because Bastion doesn’t give two shits about anything that’s not Bastion.” He sneered in contempt. “You’ll see, if you ever get that way. In Rice River, you guys were freaks, but at least you were people. In Bastion, you’re ‘equine resources’.”

“Are there many other free cities?” Majina inquired.

“A few big ones. Most aren’t much more than shanty towns that aren’t worth a legion’s time. Some get razed, then pop back up a few years later like weeds. Rice River’s the biggest in the north, and Bastion in the west. Out east is Paradise. I don’t know if it is or not. It’s a Mendi city so skies only know how it hasn’t fallen yet. Freetown’s the biggest one in the south, but only because it’s the biggest den of anarchists in the wasteland. I think it’s been conquered nine or ten times, but it’s too much of a pain in the ass to manage and too big to raze completely. Then you have Bartertown.”

Charity’s ears immediately perked. “Barter?” She leaned towards him. “Tell me more. Where is this Bartertown?” she asked with an unsettlingly sweet voice.

He leaned away from her. “Yeah. It’s not an actual town. It just sort of shows up every year. People come from all over to trade, then after a few weeks the whole thing scatters before a big stomp can crush it. There’s sort of a truce on, but that doesn’t stop some legions from squeezing the commerce. No telling where it’ll pop up each year. Folks just spread it by word of mouth and move quick.”

“Huh,” Charity sniffed, then jabbed a hoof at Scotch. “Then we’re going to this Bartertown, if we can. You owe me that much for stress and personal endangerment due to your complete disregard for sanity.”

“Fine. Long as it’s not too far out of our way,” Scotch said with a wry smile before frowning. “I’m going to check on the Whiskey Express.”

“Pretty sure it’s not going anywhere,” Precious called after her as she stepped out into the rain. “That’s the problem, after all!” Scotch ignored her.

The machine had faithfully carried them hundreds of kilometers, and they still had hundreds more to go. Being high-centered couldn’t have been doing the machine any good. If something broke on it, they’d be walking to Roam. She didn’t want to think about that. She poked around the underside of the vehicle, relieved not to find any breaks or cracks so far. Whiskey Express had been made to last!

“Imperio for your thoughts?” wheezed a voice above her. She blinked up into the rain at the sight of a zebra perched on the seat of the Whiskey Express. It was the one from before, the old zebra stallion in the raggedy cloak, this time sitting cross-legged and hugging the handle of a walking stick. “Hardly a night for a youngster to be tinkering about.”

“You’re Trailblazer. The shaman from before,” Scotch said, rubbing her chest as she remembered the fever chewing her up last time they met. “Or spirit. Or something.” Now that she wasn’t in a fever she could get a better look at him… Why were his stripes all swirly? The conical reed hat he wore kept most of the rain off him as he stared down at her with disquieting amusement.

“I am definitely something,” he replied with a slow nod. Scotch glanced over her shoulder, but the other five seemed oblivious to his presence. “You seem to be stuck on your journey,” he said as he looked at the stricken tractor.

“Yeah,” she said, turning up to him. “Can you help? Do you have some sort of shaman-y power you can use?”

“Is that what you think spirits are for, youngster?” he asked with a reproachful frown. “Slaves at our beck and call?”

“Well… not slaves,” she answered. That was an easy one. “But don’t spirits help shamans?”

“Are you a shaman?”

“I think I am.”

“And does thinking you are something make you something? If you thought yourself a rock, would you turn into a stone? If you thought yourself wind, would you fly?” he chuckled.

“No. I mean… maybe? I don’t know! I just want my tractor unstuck!”

“Ahhhh,” he said as he let out a note of understanding. “I see. You still have wants. Yes. Yes. Very understandable, at your age.”

Scotch took a deep breath and broke into coughing. The damp wasn’t doing her censured lungs any good. “Look,” she croaked, “if you’re something other than a kooky old stallion, tell me. Otherwise, I’m getting out of the rain.”

“I am most definitely a kooky old stallion,” Trailblazer said with a slow nod, then jabbed his hoof at her. “What I don’t know is what you are. So many possibilities, and not all of them good!” He hugged his walking stick’s handle, resting his cheek against its bamboo. “Perhaps a trade then. A favor for a favor, yes?”

She sighed, stomping a hoof in annoyance. “Fine. Will you help me?” she asked with a huff.

“Very well,” he answered. “Done. You are helped!” She blinked and looked around, but nothing had happened. She scowled at the old zebra who just beamed merrily at her. “Now, in return for helping you, I need you to walk…” he paused and rubbed his chin, looking around. “That way!” he proclaimed, pointing a hoof away from her friends and towards the trees. She stared into the woods on the opposite side of the road from her friends, expecting something… unexpected, but spied just another bunch of trees.

“Look, I don’t know–” she started to say as she turned back, rubbing her sore chest, but the zebra had disappeared. She blinked and looked around for where he’d gone, but there was no sign of him. She grunted, looking back at her friends. She should get out of the rain. Last thing she needed was to get sick again.

Except…

“Ugh, what is wrong with me?” she muttered as she walked to where the zebra had pointed before he’d disappeared. There was a gap in the trees—not big enough for a full-grown pony, but she could squeeze through. “Am I seriously so hard up for some directions?”

She’d go fifty paces. No more. She glanced behind her at her friends around the fire. Really, she should get at least one of them to come with her, but this was her stupid business. She scowled through the gap and then sighed. “Twenty paces,” she amended. It wasn’t like he’d really helped her anyway. She didn’t owe him anything.

“Seriously, what is wrong with these zebras?” she muttered as she pushed her way forward. “‘Oh. You want to learn how to be a shaman? Let me be as annoyingly unusual as possible.’ If this is how they teach shamans, it’s no wonder Niu-whatsername turned herself into a fish!”

The trees were dark and deep, and the feeling she was walking into another fiasco grew with every step she took. Okay, even more of a bad idea. Dark oaks pressed in around her. She hated to admit it, but this was a good deal spookier than the Orah swamp. Thorny vines curled in brambles, creeping up the black, mottled trunks. A layer of spongy, wet humus squished underhoof.

Still, she’d said twenty paces. She’d take twenty. “Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty!” She looked down, seeing it was good she’d taken only twenty paces. A steep ravine opened up before her, the bottom filled with muddy logs and rocks. “Okay, time to go back,” she said as she turned around.

At that moment, there came a brilliant flash to the west, thunder echoing across the sky and through her chest, and Scotch started at the painful noise. The rotten leaves under her hind legs gave and slipped, and she let out a sharp cry as she slid over the edge. The drop wasn’t sheer, but it was definitely a lot steeper than was safe for a filly. She tumbled down over the slippery rocks and landed hard in a cold puddle at the bottom of the wash.

It was a bit too much for her at the moment. All she wanted was some instruction. Some direction. Some… something useful! “Hurrrraggh!” she screamed, and began to furiously beat and thrash the water she sat in, fans of water joining the drizzling rain as she worked out her tantrum.

It ended as quickly as it began, and she sniffed and coughed as that censured burning built up in her lungs from the exertion. She slowly pulled herself from the puddle and gave a futile shake to try and get from completely drenched to just wet.

Somewhere she heard her friends calling out her name. Fresh humiliation rolled through her. “I’m over here!” she yelled, then broke into a fit of coughing. She clenched her eyes shut and hacked brokenly.

Opening one eye, she spotted something… unusual. A path had been burned through the trees down the gully. Perfectly round, the massive oak trunks were charred almost completely through. Mist lingered in the path, and she could vaguely make out the scent of smoke from the burned wood. It didn’t seem like the aftermath of any fire she’d seen before. The damage hadn’t spread far beyond the strange tunnel burned through the forest. As she approached the tunnel’s mouth, something began to crinkle and snap under her hooves. She backed away and stared in shock at strange tubes of fired clay in the mud and blackened rocks.

“What did this?” she murmured softly. Air prickled her skin as she stared down the tunnel.

“Scotch?!” came Majina’s cry from above.

“I’m down here!” she said, moving out into the open.

She spotted the zebra filly. “What are you doing in the bottom of a gully?” she called out.

Scotch sighed. “I have no idea.”

Majina goggled down at her, then yelled, “I found her! We need a rope.” Then her eyes widened and she screamed, “Look out!”

Scotch whirled in time to see a striped form barrel out of the woods. It was a zebra, every bit as massive in girth as Gāng. He wore a large red mask, its paint giving him an ominous, snarling visage. He reared up, his massive gut bouncing before him as he thrust a hoof at Scotch Tape. “At last, Big Macintosh! I have found you at last!”

The last corroded fuse in Scotch’s mind finally snapped. She just stared at him. “What?” she asked, implored, and stated all at once.

“Don’t bother begging for your life! I, Hiroto the Breaker, shall end you!” he bellowed. Then he lunged at her, puffing loudly as he charged.

She’d seen zebras with impossible grace, speed, and skill before. This… was not one of those zebras. She scrambled away as he awkwardly stomped and kicked at her. “That’s it…” he wheezed right along with her. “I shall end you, Big Macintosh!”

“I– How– Who– Just, what?!” she demanded, struggling not to cough. His bar was red, but he really didn’t seem all that capable of killing her short of sitting on her. She still didn’t want to get clocked by one of his wildly-swinging hooves.

“I… Hiroto… the… Breaker… will… end you…” the stallion grunted as he trundled after her, making ineffectual swipes with his hooves. “Get… over here… and fight me…”

“End this!” Precious cried out, jumping from the top of the ravine, landing on his back and digging in her claws. His blubbery flesh indented around each, drawing a high-pitched squeal from him. The gleeful glint in Precious’s eyes disappeared quickly as he rolled over and squashed her, quite by accident, under his lumbering girth. “Heavy… he’s a heavy one…” she wheezed.

“Your Marauders… will… avail you not! I… Hiroto… the Breaker…” he panted as he heaved himself to his hooves. Then he swayed and crashed down hard on his butt. “I need a moment, my worthy adversary.”

Scotch gaped at him. Crazy zebras. Crazy was the only flavor they came in anymore. “Who are you?!”

He attempted what she guessed was supposed to be a dramatic pose, hoof thrust out before him as he wheezed, “I am Hiroto! The Breaker! Champion of the Tremendous Twelve. Glorious fighter of the Achu. Master of the Sundered Mountain technique!” He set a pebble atop another rock. “Witness my power!” he declared, stomping a forehoof down. “Ow!” he cried, pushing up the mask enough to thrust the hoof in his mouth, sucking loudly. Scotch just stared as he pulled it out and gave it a shake. “Witness my… powah!” he cried again, slamming a hoof down on the pebble. It resolutely refused to witness his ‘powah’. “Come on! Shatter! Break. Do it!” He stomped the small rock over and over again.

“You’re insane,” Scotch summarized, wheezing and holding her chest.

“No he’s not,” Majina said as she scampered down the slope, approaching with a look of glee. “Oh my gosh. He’s an embodier!” She danced on her hooves with a happy squeal. “He’s a Zencori embodier! Eeee hee hee hee! I finally get to meet one!”

Scotch looked from one to the other. Up at the lip of the ravine, she saw Charity’s yellow coat. “What?” Scotch asked with a plaintive whine.

“He’s a crazy zebra,” Skylord stated, landing beside Scotch. He pointed his rifles. “Want me to shoot him?”

“Nooo!” Majina rushed forward, trying and failing to shield his ample bulk. “You can’t kill an embodier right when I meet one! You can’t!”

“Pretty sure I can,” Skylord countered, then frowned. “Say, where’s the lizard?” Suddenly he peered over and immediately scrunched up his beak in alarm, or amusement. It was hard to tell with beaks.

Scotch leaned over as well, and spotted Precious’s hind legs and tail poking out of the zebra’s rear, twitching feebly.

“We’re not speaking about this ever again,” Precious groaned as they headed back towards their shelter and stranded vehicle.

“Speak for yourself. This is prime barracks material,” Skylord replied with a snicker. “I’m getting drinks out of this story.”

“Are you even old enough to drink? Don’t they have age limits or something?” Precious countered.

“Look on the bright side. If we could get this fat tub up that slope, there’s got to be a way for us to get the tractor unstuck,” Charity said, then sneezed.

“Hiroto isn’t fat! Hiroto is in the prime of his life!” Hiroto proclaimed, flexing a sagging forelimb. Scotch stared at the pathetic muscle and he flushed, muttering, “Hiroto is just… a tad out of shape.”

“Unless that shape is spherical. You’re right on the money there,” Charity muttered.

“Stop being mean,” Majina rebuked. “Being an embodier is really tough.”

Scotch flopped down next to the fire, her breaths coming in short, tired gasps. Thankfully, Charity was already on it, putting the tea kettle over the flames. She anticipated a bill for tea preparation, though. “Explain this to me one more time, because this sounds a little weird, even for the zebra lands.”

“It’s not weird at all. My tribe preserves stories,” Majina explained. “Embodiers become characters from those stories and try to act out as they do. It’s a way to pay homage. Some embodiers play as hero and villain, recreating famous fights. That way, the stories live on.”

“And that gives you the right to beat me up?” Scotch challenged, turning to ‘Hiroto’.

“I’m sorry. You’re the first green earth pony I’ve ever encountered. I got carried away,” he said, pushing back the crude red mask to reveal a round, pleasant-looking face. “I should have asked if you were Big Macintosh first.”

“Well, for starters, Big Macintosh wasn’t green! Secondly, he certainly wasn’t a girl! And thirdly, he was big!” she huffed, steamed that she’d been mistaken for him at all.

Hiroto sniffed, “I have met some zebras attempting to embody him who couldn’t carry off his legendary might and power. It can be a challenge.”

“Clearly, Breaker,” Precious sneered.

“Weren’t you just pinned under his ass?” Skylord asked.

She went rigid as stone, turned to glare at him over her shoulder, and hissed, “I thought we said never again!”

“You said,” Skylord chuckled.

“That’s it!” Precious snapped, launching herself at the griffon.

“Bring it!” Skylord shouted back, and the two colliding in a ball of furious clawing and biting, punctuated with cries of ‘lizard!’ and ‘turkey!’

Charity pointedly ignored their scuffle as she poured a cup of lungwort tea. “Wait, so some of you embody ponies too?”

“Certainly. The ministry mares, Princess Luna, Big Macintosh. After all, heroes have to have villains to fight,” Hiroto said with a happy smile. “It is an honor to embody a villain well.”

“Please tell me your whole tribe isn’t like this,” Charity asked Majina with a plaintive groan. “I’m not sure I can take a whole tribe like this.” Scotch wasn’t sure she could either.

“I don’t… think so?” she said with a worried smile. “I haven’t met many Zencori who weren’t my mom. I lived my whole life in Equestria.”

His eyes widened. “Oh! You’re from the pony lands! That explains your accents. Oh, and two of you being ponies.”

What accent? Majina was already on a roll though. “So if you’re an embodier, why Hiroto? Wouldn’t it be better to be Guido the Mountain or Tarahaha the Voracious?”

“Just because I’m heavy?” he answered with a frown. Next to them, Skylord had forced the barrel of one of his guns into Precious’s mouth like a bit, struggling to keep the dragonfilly pinned beneath him.

“You’re way past heavy and halfway to ‘damn,’” Skylord retorted. “Seriously. You’re like the third fat zebra I’ve ever seen.” Precious gave a mighty heave, knocking him against the wall of the rock. Seizing upon her new tactic, she slammed him against the stone again and again, slurred curses pouring from around the barrel jammed between her jaws.

“Well, they’re sort of large-ish characters and you… I mean, it would be easier,” Majina said quickly, suddenly sheepish. “Guido never fought or anything. I’m sorry if I offended.”

He snorted. “I can’t help my size. I don’t eat much more than anyone else in the village. I’ve always been big, and I always get picked on for it. If I can embody Hiroto, then maybe others won’t mess with me so much.”

Still, if what Majina had said about Hiroto had been true, he might have set the bar a little high for himself. “Can you help us get our tractor unstuck? You’d be our hero for sure.”

He rose to his hooves, pulled his mask down into place, and said grandly, “Of course! Hiroto the Breaker can smash mountains. Certainly he can handle a tractor!”

Precious now had Skylord on his back, the gun now dislodged as he tried to keep her fangs from his face.

“Precious! Stop trying to eat Skylord and help!” Scotch called out at the scuffling pair. She’d meant it as a joke, but the dragonfilly recoiled as if she’d been shot, looking at Scotch with an expression of near-horror. She scrambled off him as if he were a hot stove, and without another word slunk out into the rain. Scotch stared at her in bafflement.

“I could have taken her,” Skylord muttered, skulking after her.

“Right. I think you’re missing some feathers there,” Charity said, pointing at gaps in his rust-colored plumage. He immediately flushed as well, clasping a talon over the missing feathers, and also walked briskly out into the rain as well. Charity gathered them up with a snicker, “These have to be worth something,” she said, then frowned at the downy base.

Scotch had bigger things to worry about than feathers as Hiroto got to work. He stomped over and threw himself against the rear of the tractor. It wasn’t clear what he was trying to do after that, but it seemed to involve smooshing himself against the back. Gāng would not have been impressed.

“Aha… It seems… my constant battles with the ponies has… tired me,” he said, mopping his sweating brow. “Perhaps if we returned to my village, I could call on the other Tremendous Twelve and free this vehicle.”

“Village?! A Zencori village?!” Majina squealed in delight, then spun to Scotch. “Oh, say yes. Please say yes!”

Scotch pursed her lips then turned to Pythia. “So… what sort of horrible or heartbreaking thing is going to happen if we leave the road again?” she asked. “Lay it on me. I can handle it.” The seer blinked and consulted her map. “Bloodbath? Betrayal? Doomed spirits?”

“You’re going to be…” she said, pausing for drama before finishing with, “bored. And I sense some annoyance. And entertainment. Then you’ll invoke Tradition and they’ll come and help us free the Whiskey Express.”

Scotch blinked. “Seriously? No blood or death at all? Anywhere?”

“A little, if you listen to the radio,” she said, not looking up. “Don’t. Easy peasy.” She gave a little wave of her hoof. “Have fun.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Do I want to see a whole village of Majinas?” she mused aloud, rubbing her chin. “I think there’s a red ant nest somewhere around here I’d rather sit on.”

“Hey!” Majina said in a wounded voice.

Scotch pursed her lips. “You know, I pretty sure a tribe of storytellers might have some useful books and stuff.” She nudged her hip. “Maaaaaaybe about the Eye and stuff?”

“You are trying to convince me,” Pythia retorted flatly, “to go to a village full of that?” She jabbed a hoof at Hiroto. “Seriously? Red ants are less annoying.”

Scotch just smiled, leaning towards her.

“I’m not going,” Pythia insisted. “There’s not a single future where you convince me.” Scotch gazed deep into her eyes, and the filly flushed. “No! I’m not going!”

“I can’t believe I’m going to a village full of Zencori,” Pythia muttered as they trotted after Hiroto, who’d assured them the village “wasn’t far.” They’d taken an hour to hide their trailer off the road, cover it in brush, and follow him along a narrow track into the forest. The group crossed a tree bridge stretching over the ravine Scotch had fallen into, and Scotch gave the burnt track beneath them a wary look. Hiroto didn’t seem too worried though. With Skylord keeping an eye above, Scotch wasn’t too worried either. “Are you sure it’s not too late for the ants?”

“I’m sure,” Scotch insisted as they moved under the massive oaks. Someone had carved faces in them, strange abstract masklike faces that seemed to watch solemnly as they approached. “What were you out here looking for, Hiroto?”

“Ah yes. Ixion,” he replied, as if that explained everything. He glanced back at her. “You don’t know?”

“We’re not from around here, remember? Is Ixion a monster or a person or what?” Charity asked, carrying a pile of scavenged goods on her back for trading.

“Ah. Yes. Monster and person, and a storm.”

Charity shook her head, her face pained.

Hiroto went on. “Ixion wanders the woods, a great horse of lightning. Where it goes, things die. It travels the earth and sky in torment, lashing the ground with lightning and tornadoes. Many villages have fallen to its passing. It passed by yesterday and as one of the Tremendous Twelve it was my duty to investigate its passage.” Scotch rolled her eyes, but really she was glad they hadn’t run across this Ixion.

“Surprised the Blood Legion let something like that roam around in their backyard,” Skylord said, clearly unimpressed.

“Ixion is beyond any legion, though they’d never admit it,” Hiroto said. “When it comes, my village flees to the mountains and waits for it to pass.” He coughed. “I, of course, would never flee! I simply go to safeguard the villagers.”

“Right.” Skylord let out a grunt. “Sounds like Aizen, then.” Hiroto nodded.

“Keep throwing out names like that and I’m going to start hitting people,” Charity grumbled.

“It’s a monster. Or megaspell. Or something. It’s a mountain,” Skylord muttered. “We have to use artillery every now and then to keep it away from Irontown.”

“Wait? What do you mean ‘keep it away’?” Majina asked. “I thought you said it was a mountain?”

“It walks around. Wreaks havoc wherever it goes, especially on roads and rails,” he explained. “It doesn’t even need to attack. It just walks right through you. Though it can attack, hence the artillery keeping it away from Irontown. Better to lose a gun drawing it off than to let it attack the city. We’ve got a lot of guns, but I really don’t want to use them on Aizen.”

“I swear I’ve heard that name before…” Pythia muttered.

Still, it reinforced the differences between the Wasteland and the zebralands. There, survival at all was the challenge. Here, you might get enough to eat or even do relatively well for yourself, but then a legion or mega monster might come along and just casually sweep you from the board. A mountain? A horse of lightning? Even Blackjack might not be able to stop a walking mountain.

Scotch suddenly felt a lot smaller.

The forest trail gradually transitioned into a village. Village, however, was a bit of a misnomer. The place appeared to be more like carefully cultivated living trees interspersed with classical Roamani stone architecture. Dozens of trees were transformed into residences, some built directly in the trunks and others weaved from their branches. Still others were carved from quarried stone fashioned into round, cylindrical towers three or four stories tall that appeared ancient, even by wasteland standards. Circular clearings, edged by stone, held densely packed gardens, and judging from the baskets stacked here and there, acorns had to be a staple crop.

But the most prominent structure was a half-dome carved into the mountainside behind the village. At first Scotch assumed it was some sort of quarry, perhaps the source of the rock for the old buildings, but as they moved nearer it became clear it was an amphitheatre of some sort. A natural hollow in the cliff face expanded out, tiers of seats carved out of the living rock set in roughly concentric circles radiating from the stage facing the cliff. A stone shell arching out from the top of the hollow protected the stage from rain, and it appeared as if cloth shades could be pulled out to cover the audience in a pinch. Perched at the top of the shell was a strange crane assembly, whose purpose she couldn’t begin to guess. The theatre could have held ten times the village’s population, and she could imagine zebras from Fort Greengap travelling here for a performance before the bombs fell. The spectacular gray mountains rose up in a granite curve, shapes in the natural rock face suggesting ancient forms.

A Blood Legion banner flew atop a squat bunker down the slope, away from the village, but Hiroto steered them clear. The legionnaires loitering outside just seemed bored, not like they were searching for a band of misfits travelling across their territory.

Skylord clicked his beak on his bite guard as he eyed a trio of red-clad zebras. Scotch reached over, bopping him lightly on the nose. “No shooting,” she warned.

“They’d deserve it, sitting out in the open like that,” he muttered.

“Yeah, maybe you could kill all three, but all it’d take is one inside with a radio and we’re in big trouble. Is it worth it?”

He muttered to himself, but stopped clicking his trigger bit.

Hiroto led them into the theatre. A dozen zebras lounged in the stands, most seeming more interested in napping than in paying attention to a performance on the edge of an enormous stage. Seven zebra foals stood wearing paper masks with swirly round patterns on them, with six stuffed burlap sacks off to the side. The sacks had similar star-themed masks on as well.

An elderly zebra stallion watched the seven raptly, leaning on a knobbly cane. He had a pointed goatee and wore a once-extravagant purple and gold cape. A stained-velvet wide-brimmed hat perched atop his head, a fluffy plume tucked into its band.

“We have come to this faraway land to serve our dark god!” one of the foals called out in a quavering voice.

“Come to summon him from the depths of the earth!” called out another.

“Come to s- s- s-” one started to stammer. “Line, Master Baruti.”

“Sacrifice to him,” the elder zebra supplied in a rich, warm voice.

“Come to sacrifice to him!” the colt rushed.

“Come to call down a star for him!” said the next filly in line with relish. “So we may rule over all!” She added a cackle of maniacal laughter.

“Hey! That’s my line!” protested the colt next to her.

“Well I say it better!” she snorted, pushing her mask up to stick her tongue out at him.

“Children,” Master Baruti said, tapping his cane sharply on the floor before him. “Say your line, Kojo.”

The colt took a deep breath and declared dramatically, “So we may rule over all!” He punctuated his line with an even more over-the-top cackle, followed by sticking his own tongue back at the filly. “So there.”

A zebra colt crouching behind the bags raised up a stick with a small glass jar holding a softly glowing fluid and paper rays glued to the sides. He held it over the performers as the zebra children onstage cried out in unison. “The star! The star for our dark god!”

A filly at the end of the row gave a shrill yell, “No!” Her voice cracked, and she coughed. “I will not! I will not enslave our people to a god that consumes what is me and mine! I refuse!” She threw something up at the jar, and there was a flash of powder from the end of her hoof. “Go free, star!”

“No!” cried the rest. “You fool! You serpent! You traitor! We are undone!” They collapsed to the floor.

The stagecolt pushed over the masked bags, one after another, before leaping up with a loud “Kaboosh!” Sparking powder flashed from his hooves, and he scrambled back and hid behind the overturned sacks.

The lone filly standing paused, then called out: “So it is done. Where once we were thirteen tribes, we are now twelve and one. Let us be marked for our shame, so our crime can never be forgotten. Trust us not, but condemn us neither, for as twelve of us once threatened all, one of us would not.”

Scotch frowned, confused. Was there some acoustic trick making it sound like her voice came from two places? She glanced over, seeing Pythia’s lips move, and realized she’d been saying the lines as well under her breath.

A chill passed over Scotch as the colt with the star carried it away on a stick, crawling behind the bags. She’d met that star when she’d gone to the moon. She’d never told anyone about it. Just mentioning going to the moon was bad enough, and it was hard to think of the moon and not remember Daddy dying. Tom, as the star had called himself, had tried to convince Blackjack to let it obliterate the Eater and the world along with it, with a promise that life would return. But she remembered the things it had said.

She bit her lip and shivered. Whatever. The star was gone. It had gotten what it wanted when Hoofington, the Eater, Blackjack, and her father had been destroyed.

The elderly stallion clapped his forehooves. “Good. Good. A little more practice I think, but you did well.” The foals started removing their masks and chatting to each other as one started to put up the bag.

A filly, the one who had delivered the final soliloquy, walked up to the old zebra. “Master Baruti?” she asked in a quavering voice, holding her mask to her chest. “I don’t understand. Why did the Serpent do it? Betray the others, I mean. They were going to rule the world, right?”

“Ah, who can say?” Master Baruti replied, stroking his pointed beard. “Some claim she was the wickedest of the wicked, and she chose to spite her own tribe because she could not rule it all herself. So, she cast down her own tribe’s ambition. Others, more romantically inclined, believe that she loved a pony to be sacrificed along with the star. Love possesses a power that defies all logic, even sanity. It’s not a power to be overlooked. Still others say she realized her people’s way was folly, and so did what was right, which is a power sometimes greater than love.”

“I don’t get it,” the filly replied flatly.

The elderly zebra chuckled, “You will, in time. And perhaps you might ask her,” he said, pointing his walking stick at Pythia without looking at her. He turned, gave her a smile. “Well, cursed child? What is your own tribe’s opinion of the Serpent?”

Pythia glowered at him. “That she was a moron who was too stupid to realize what she was doing.”

“Ah, well, enslaving the world makes for poor comedy. Perhaps someday I will attempt it. ‘The Breaking of the Thirteen, a Comedy’!” He slowly panned a hoof through the air. Then he turned back to the filly. “Think on your lines. Why would you do what the Serpent did?” He patted her on the head, and she went back to the others who were straightening up the sacks.

He heaved himself to his feet and gripped the cane, pressing it into the crook of his foreleg and hobbling towards Scotch and her friends with a pained and practiced step. He pulled off his hat and gave a careful bow of his head. “Master Baruti, elder of the village of the Mountain Stage, at your service.”

“Majina!” Majina squeaked at once. “This is Scotch Tape, Pythia, Precious, Skylord, and Charity! We came all the way from the ponylands on a ship where we were attacked by pirates and crawled through a swamp and were hunted and then there was Bacchanalia but we had to go because–” She paused, inhaling deeply for several seconds.

He silenced her with a raised hoof. “Pacing, child, pacing. Old ears need narratives smooth and delivered in due time.” He squinted, looking them over with searching eyes. When he saw Skylord’s Iron Legion brand, he frowned momentarily, but his pleasant demeanor returned. “I can tell there is quite a story here. Organize your thoughts into a cohesive narrative, and then tell me.”

Majina’s mouth worked silently a moment. “Oh. Ah… okay, Master,” she said, sounding slightly wounded.

“Master? What are you master of?” Precious asked brusquely.

“It is a term of honor for the Zencori. One who has mastered the five hundred canon tales of our people. Quite a few to memorize.” He chuckled, turning to Majina. “How many have you learned, Happy Tale?”

“Oh,” Majina replied, flushing. “Four– No, Fifty!” she amended in a rush.

“Ah, a very respectable number for your age,” he said warmly. He looked to Hiroto, his lips curving in a warm smile. “Ah, Hiroto returns! Another mighty skirmish with your immortal foe?”

He stiffened and replied, “I searched for Big Macintosh, but fought a civilian.”

“Wait till Ignatius hears,” the old zebra teased, then blinked. “We do still have an Ignatius about, yes?”

“No sir. She was taken by the Bloods,” he replied morosely. “Last month, remember?”

“Ah,” the zebra replied, his smile gone. “Hopefully we’ll find another.” His smile returned, a little less bright. “So what brings you to our village?”

“Our tractor got stuck and his one says you can help us get back on the road,” Scotch said, gesturing to Hiroto.

“As recompense for him attacking someone just because they were an earth pony,” Charity added. “You might throw in some supplies as well.”

The master rubbed his chin, appearing reluctant to aid them. Given there were Blood Legion right on the edge of the village, Scotch couldn’t blame him.

She glanced over at Pythia, then at the master. “You have a tradition for helping odd travelers or something, right?”

That made him blink and then smile. “Indeed we do. To aid those crafting new and unusual stories.” He inhaled deeply and then nodded once. “Very well. But only if you stay as my guest and tell me your story. Surely there must be quite a tale to bring together such a cast of characters.” Majina gave a squeal of delight, dancing on her hooves. “Remember. Pacing. Don’t try and tell it all in a huge rush.”

“Right. Pacing.” She took a deep breath, and then let it out in a squeal, dancing on her hooves again, “I get to tell our story!”

Hiroto moved off towards some more fit stallions and mares, while Master Baruti led them towards one of the round towers adjacent to the theatre. The weathered stone stood in mute testament to the centuries that had passed since its crafting. The gray rock had been carefully worked to fit together so a minimum of mortar was required. Two masks hung on the wall, flanking the door.

“Hello,” whispered the one on the left.

“Welcome,” whispered the one on the right.

Scotch blinked and stared at the others, who showed no reaction as they walked inside. Was she hearing things, or was this just spirit stuff? Ugh, she needed a mentor! “Hi,” she replied to both, and quickly slipped inside before the others gave her weird looks.

The tower was a drum of wonderment, completely hollow, wooden walkways forming two additional floors higher up. A fire pit burned merrily in the center, filling the space with warmth, its smoke whisked away up a copper funnel and chimney that dangled down the middle of the chamber. Scotch approved; the metal would be an excellent means of warming the tower in the winter. The ground floor had a sort of kitchen space with an ice box and bin. Given they were right by the mountains, she suspected ice wasn’t a problem, even in the winter. A round oven rose like a beehive next to the fire pit, probably for ease of cooking. Next to that was a sort of wash area, with a tub of grouted stone sitting next to a spigot. The rest of the ground floor was open; for entertaining guests, she suspected. A dozen comfortable chairs were arranged in almost a complete circle. The only thing lacking was a toilet, which was probably an outhouse separate from the building. She sure didn’t envy whoever had to use it in midwinter. The only concession to modern technology was a radio so old its casing was carved from wood.

Yet all that was nothing next to the books. Most of the second floor, and all of the third, was filled with books on shelves, books in cases, and books stacked up in piles atop them. There were scrolls hanging sideways in racks, and even a few stone tablets covered in weathered glyphs. A treasure trove of lore lay before them, and for the first time Scotch could recall, Pythia wore an expression of gobsmacked wonder as her eyes swept across the expanse of literature. Scotch supposed it was one thing to see a future and another to smell the leather, paper, and parchment. Windows on the second and third floor allowed light to stream across the room in golden shafts.

A Zencori stallion with faded stripes sat in a stuffed chair before the fireplace with three open books precariously balanced on his outstretched limbs. He tilted his head to peer at them over a pair of bifocals perched on the edge of his muzzle as they entered. “Skies above and earth below, what are you doing with such a… menagerie, Baruti?”

Baruti smiled and swept off his hat, gesturing to them with a hoof. “This is… I can’t recall their names. However, this!” he gestured at the elderly zebra and grinned, then paused, grin frozen in place. “I can’t quite recall either!”

Majina inhaled as Charity announced, “Charity.”

“Skylord.”

“Pythia.”

“Precious.”

Scotch just shrugged and added, “Scotch Tape,” and then became aware of a high pitched whine. Majina gaped at her, jaw dropped, eyes bulging as she hooked her hooves before her. “Uh, this is Majina,” Scotch added, but if anything that just made her look even more wounded. “What?” she asked, wondering if the filly was having some kind of attack. “It’s just our names.” If anything the whine amplified.

“You have my sympathies. That was no way to do an introduction at all,” Master Baruti said, patting her on the back. Majina immediately slumped, tears running down her cheeks as she wept.

“Succinct though,” the elderly zebra in the chair stated, eying Majina like a stern uncle who disapproved of his niece’s musical tastes. “I assume she comes from the more dramatic side of our tribe.” He looked at the others. “I am Historian Jahi. This easily distracted fellow is Master Baruti, in the event that he either forgot to tell you, or forgot it himself.”

Master Baruti returned his hat to its proper place atop his head. “I’d hardly forget that,” he said with a wounded little pout. Then he looked up. “Librarian? Would you care to join us?”

From the shelves of books above a female voice replied, “No thank you. I can hear them just fine from up here.”

“That is our librarian, Taliba,” Baruti said. “Forgive her. She prefers the company of books over most people.”

“Not true!” the mare called out from above. “I am very sociable.”

“True,” Baruti conceded with an indulgent sigh, then smiled to the six. “Would you like some refreshments? We have some berries…”

“We ate them yesterday,” Jahi said, dropping his eyes back to the books on his outspread limbs.

“Oh. Well, there’s boiled zava…” Baruti offered.

“Ate that the day before yesterday,” Jahi interrupted again.

Baruti pursed his lips. “Perhaps I should check the icebox again,” he muttered and walked over to the kitchen section.

“Forgive him. He’s crammed his skull so full of ridiculous tales that mundane facts frequently escape him,” Jahi gestured to the seats around him. “Please. Have a seat. Tell me how you came to our village.” Majina immediately inhaled again, and he jabbed a hoof at her, “With as little dramatic embellishment as possible,” he added, making her wince as if he’d struck her.

“Jahi!” protested the master. “At least a little embellishment!”

“I am old. I don’t have time left for extemporaneous flummery. You–” he said, jabbing a hoof at Scotch, “tell me. In as few words as possible.”

So Scotch Tape gave a succinct summary of their travels from Greengap into the woods, the tractor getting stuck, Trailblazer, meeting Hiroto, and coming to the village. Jahi nodded as he took it all in, his pale blue eyes locked on Scotch’s as if he were absorbing, memorizing, and cataloging everything she told him.

When she finished, he sniffed. “Embodiers. They’re far more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Embodiment is a time-honored tradition,” Baruti argued as he nimbly mixed together some sort of brown dough.

“It was ridiculous tradition centuries ago and remains so now. I wish you wouldn’t encourage it,” Jahi said, taking off his bifocals and rubbing them on a cloth.

“I’m sort of sensing you two aren’t exactly on the same page?” Precious asked, waving a claw back and forth between the two of them. Baruti barked a laugh while Jahi merely smiled. From far above, the hidden librarian tittered. “I mean, I thought Zencori were all about stories and stuff.”

“You are absolutely correct,” Jahi and Baruti answered simultaneously. “That is our nature.”

The two exchanged a cool look and Jahi gave Baruti a wave of his hoof. The master kneaded dough vigorously as he went on. “The Zencori tribe exists to propagate stories, but there is a tiny schism over whether our tribe should emphasize truth or feeling.”

“Oh yes, very tiny. Only goes back to the founding of the tribe,” Jahi cracked.

Baruti continued as he started to wrap the dough on sticks. “On the dramatic tradition, we treat stories as alive. They inspire, change, and react. They propagate feeling. And the historical tradition tries to get the stories as accurate as possible.” Jahi nodded with a smile. “Needless to say, there is a world of difference between telling a story well, and telling a story accurately. Which do you think is more important?”

“Well,” said Majina and Precious.

“Accurately,” Pythia and Charity answered,

Skylord just snorted as if the whole question were stupid.

Suddenly all eyes were on Scotch, and she gave a sheepish little smile. “Both?” she suggested.

Jahi sniffed in disapproval. “Hedging your bets? Disappointing.” He looked to the others. “Needless to say, it’s been a debate going back centuries. Ever since the Canon Wars–”

“You mean the War of the Liberated Word, don’t you?” Baruti interrupted.

Jahi rolled his eyes. “If you have to be poetic about it.”

“I do. You know how much I do,” Baruti said with a chuckle as he sprinkled the dough with salt, then stuck the sticks into the brick oven.

“Regardless,” Jahi continued implacably, carefully marking his place in some of the books he was balancing and closing them. “The Zencori tribe has struggled with this dilemma. Dramaticists like the good master want to tell entertaining stories. Historians like myself strive for accuracy.”

“You guys fought wars over stories?” Precious asked with a skeptical grin. “Like, killing wars?”

“Nothing so bloody,” Jahi said with a wave of his hoof, transferring the books from his lap to the floor. “Though I must say the transcripts show the debate between the factions to be quite… vigorous.”

“What, did you throw books at each other?” the dragonfilly asked.

“There was a catapult,” Baruti said as he started to mix drinks.

“There was no catapult!” Jahi snapped.

“There could have been,” Baruti suggested before dicing up something green that smelled strongly of mint. “Cabo talked about flinging an entire reference section at a scrum of historians.”

“Cabo never failed to embellish a story with unnecessary exaggeration!” Jahi stated firmly, pausing as he stared at Baruti from across the fire pit, as if testing for another interruption.

“…Seriously?” Scotch Tape said warily.

“It was another time,” Jahi sighed.

“Historian mobs were shortsightedly burning dramatic poetry and stories,” Baruti countered with a frown, jabbing a dough covered hoof at him. “Don’t gloss those details simply because it was a thousand years ago.”

“I concede the mistake,” Jahi said. “With a few notable exceptions, like the Librarian Hypatia being burned on a heap of books she refused to edit, there were few deaths. Still, it was an unpleasant time, what with the instability following Nightmare Moon’s usurpation of the sun.”

“Was that the thing going on outside?” Precious asked, pointing a claw in the direction of the stage.

“Oh no, that was an even older story: The Serpent,” Baruti said with dramatic relish.

“I don’t get it,” she mumbled, blinking. “Was one of them like a snake or something?”

“In our earliest age, after the tribes separated, the Starkatteri were the wisest and noblest of tribes,” Jahi said in the patient, warm tones of a practiced lecturer. “They used their knowledge of the stars to warn of monster attacks, natural disasters, and unseen opportunities. While not our first shamans, they were wise in the mystic arts. However, their insight left them vulnerable to dark forces. And so they sought to raise their place above that of the other tribes. They spoke of returning to one people. One zebra race. Some heeded their call. Sadly, the sight that made them wonderful advisors also made them devilishly effective generals. The tribes were routed one by one, and taken across the sea to their new capital in a faraway land.”

“Hoofington,” Scotch Tape answered, earning an arched brow from the elderly zebra.

“Azaskar was its ancient name, but you have the right of it. Built on an island where a river split, thousands were enslaved to construct it. A city of one tribe. One people. One thought. One way. And when it was completed, they conducted a rite to consecrate it.”

“So… this Serpent wasn’t with the program?” Charity asked. “What’d she do?”

“Interrupted a powerful spiritual ritual,” Jahi answered. “It saved the world, but her motives have always been in question. The result of her sabotage was somewhat… spectacular.”

“Azaskar was blasted into the depths of the earth, and the star was freed,” Baruti proclaimed grandly.

“Surprised you think that was a good thing,” Charity commented. “Aren’t stars evil for zebras?”

“Stars are powerful drivers of plot!” Baruti said, sounding scandalized. “Tempted by the stars! Star-crossed lovers! Struggling against a fate authored by tyrannous stars! Why, without stars, we’d lose half our classical plot devices.”

“Perish the thought,” Jahi muttered, then raised his voice to add, “All issues of drama aside, better a star return to the sky. They are powerful entities, best not trifled or bargained with.” He gave Pythia a sharp look.

“Because wasting power that could actually help people is a good thing,” Pythia snorted, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, the Serpent was an idiot. They got their asses censured so hard they’re probably still feeling it. You don’t break a deal with an undead star god and not pay a price for it.”

Scotch frowned. “But wouldn’t the censure have been lifted after Blackjack killed the Eater of Souls?”

“What?” the mare said from overhead, poking her head out over the edge. Her mane was completely milky white, and she wore a pair of thick glasses over her pink eyes. Scotch realized the other two zebras had fallen silent as well, and just stared as well as if she’d just swore and were trying best to decide how to address it.

“My friend killed it a few years ago,” Scotch said as she looked from one to the next, trying to understand the problem. “What? You were talking about the Eater of Souls thing, right?” she asked, just in case there was another dark star god she didn’t know about. Baruti gave her the smallest of nods. “Well, it’s dead. My friend Blackjack blew it up with a giant piece of the moon.”

“She says it so casually,” Majina whispered.

“Trust me. They wouldn’t believe the whole story,” Pythia muttered back.

“The dark god is dead?” the librarian asked again. “The dark god was slain?” She sounded as if Scotch was saying up was down.

“I guess. The whole Core was vaporized,” Scotch answered.

“That’s not something to claim casually,” Jahi warned.

“But it’s true. Her words are true,” Taliba said as she began scrambling down the stairs. “ Can’t you two hear it? The dark god is dead. Actually dead. Actually killed!” Taliba tripped and tumbled down the last three steps, falling in a heap.

She rose to her hooves immediately, straightening glasses knocked askew from her fall. “We need to report this to the rest of the tribe at once. Call the Conclave together,” Taliba said looking at the two old stallions. They didn’t meet her gaze, and she blinked behind her glasses before blurting out, “Our tribe needs to be told!”

“They will not come, Taliba,” Jahi muttered. “And if they did, they would not believe a pony and a fallen zebra.” He sighed and then looked at Scotch. “I don’t suppose that your ‘friend’ was a zebra, was she?”

“No. She was a unicorn. A pony from my stable,” she answered.

“See?” Jahi asked Taliba. The mare blinked through her glasses, looking from Scotch to Jahi and back again. “They will say it just a pony story, like the Lightbringer. It is not true. Then we will be punished for calling the tribe for a nonsensical story.”

“But she’s not lying! Her words are as clear as I’ve ever heard,” the mare insisted. “Any librarian would hear them.”

“But she could be mistaken,” Jahi pressed.

Baruti nodded. “She could be tricked. There are countless stories of a librarian’s veracity being deceived by an ardent and wishful soul. She merely thinks it's true, for whatever reason. Many believe things that are not so. A Conclave would never accept that a pony accomplished the impossible.” Taliba looked as if he’d struck her.

“I’m missing a lot here,” Scotch said, and even Majina appeared baffled. “What’s a Conclave and why wouldn’t they believe me?”

“The Conclave are the leaders of our tribe,” Jahi answered. “They determine what stories are true, and what stories are dramatic fantasy. What lessons are told and which lessons are forbidden. We once numbered hundreds, but not we’re merely a few dozen. I know my fellows. They will not accept a story telling of a pony slaying the dark god of the Starkatteri.”

“It is a tall tale to swallow,” Baruti said, rubbing the back of his head. “Maybe with a zebra protagonist, it might be told.”

“But… It’s true!” Taliba protested, surprising Scotch. “Can neither of you hear it in her words? Every book in here knows it’s true.”

Jahi didn’t look at her as he replied quietly, “It doesn’t matter if it’s true, Librarian, if they won’t accept it.” Taliba blinked at one and the other, then slumped and without another word walked back up the stairs.

Scotch frowned as she left. “What…”

“Forgive her. Calling the Conclave together is never done lightly, not even before the war,” Jahi explained. “Calling it to confirm pony stories in pony lands is not possible with the world in the state it is. We’d have to pull together the Conclave from all across our lands, then agree to send representatives to the ponylands to confirm your story, and then have to come to terms with what it actually means. Far easier to believe the cursed city was destroyed by Legate Vitiosus, who died in the attack, and the dark god sleeps again.”

“The Legate? You think the Legate–” Scotch choked, breaking into hacking coughs.

“That is as has been told to us by zebras from the ponylands,” Baruti said, adopting a dramatic voice that did little to ease the edge she felt. “That the Legate, with his army, did battle with the cursed city and its defenders and destroyed the Maiden of the Stars. Then he sacrificed himself nobly to destroy the cursed city.”

“If by sacrifice you mean transform himself into a mountain of crushing flesh before rotting because he mouthed off to his master, then yeah. Sacrifice,” Pythia muttered, getting sharp looks from both stallions. “What? Don’t look at me like that. He was Starkatteri too.”

“We’d expect nothing but lies from your tribe,” Jahi answered coolly.

All Scotch Tape’s warm and silly thoughts of flinging books via catapult had been paved over by the realization that the Legate, a monster who had killed thousands in the Hoof alone, was the hero. Scotch tried to defend her friend, the one person who’d seen the fight at the very end, but her coughs were growing worse and worse. She couldn’t stay here, but running out into the rain seemed like a bad idea too.

“Miss?” Jahi asked as her hacking grew worse and worse. Scotch rose to her hooves and moved towards the stairs up to the second floor. She needed some distance from all of this. Upstairs, the smell of paper and old leather was even stronger. A soothing smell, but it did little to help the burn in her lungs or the ache in her heart.

Then she spotted Taliba staring at her. The white maned zebra had her own little kitchenette, with stove and a little table next to a tiny, narrow bed. A metal kettle bubbled on the flat surface. Taliba blinked at her. “Oh,” she murmured lightly, seeming unsure how to address this intrusion. “Can I… help you?”

“Bad lungs,” she croaked, trying to suppress her coughing. “Sorry.”

“Oh. It’s fine.” It definitely didn’t sound fine. She fidgeted with a book sticking out on a shelf, chewing her bottom lip before she continued, “I don’t get visitors up here, ever. Not unless they’re after a book.” Down below, Pythia was arguing with both Jahi and Baruti about the Legate.

“I’m sorry they shot down your idea,” Scotch muttered. “For the record, I think that getting a Conclave thingy together to find out the truth is a great idea.”

Taliba smiled and poured two cups of a minty tea. “They are… my elders. It is hard to argue with them.” Scotch imagined arguing with Rivets, the old head of Maintenance in her stable, and had to agree. “They are correct in their decision. Conclaves were rare, even before the war. I was foolish to suggest it.” She spoke with practiced resignation, hanging her head as she kept her eyes down.

She brought a cup to Scotch, who took an experimental sip. Minty, but oddly bitter. Still, the relaxing sensation that washed through her helped untangle her emotions. “Why is it such a big deal if the Eater thing was destroyed? Isn’t that a good thing?”

She sat on the floor beside her. “There are things in the world that cannot die. Dark things. Timeless things. Powerful things. Great spirits and great evils. They cling to existence with all their will. To slay such a thing is… unthinkable. Could you imagine killing Nightmare Moon?”

“Like, the Nightmare Moon from the stories?” Scotch asked, receiving a nod. “Maybe? I mean, if you cut off her head… but she had dream powers and stuff so she could probably see you coming and… huh…” She thought a moment. “But she was beaten.”

“Of course. Evil frequently is. It is driven back. Stymied. A evil person may be destroyed, but the forces that drive them don’t disappear. Evil itself is rarely destroyed. It’s something fundamental that exists and must be opposed, or it will destroy us.”

She looked down into her cup. “The dark god of the Starkatteri was evil. It would have consumed all that is for its own glory and existence.” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t imagine something like that destroyed.”

She heard the shuffling of cards in her ear. “But you believe me, right? I’m not lying.”

“I know you’re not. I’m a librarian. The stories know if one of their own is true or not.” She gave her books a gentle smile, caressing one’s spine with a hoof.

Scotch stared as a tiny gold blob with a form resembling a zebra pulled itself out of the top of the book’s gilded cover and gave her a little wave. For several seconds, she couldn’t look away from it as it pulled itself free and started to walk along the old, worn books.

She blinked several times, hard, then looked down at her cup. More golden shapes were creeping out, squeezing through the pages and crawling out of the scrolls. As she stared, she watched the golden forms, most equine but a few more exotic species mixed in, crawl along Taliba’s shoulders and peek out of her mane like globs of ambulatory honey.

“Okay… this is strange,” Scotch said as she nervously took another sip, then she looked down at the cup. “Did you drug me or something?”

“No. It’s spirit mint tea,” Taliba answered, her smile fading. “It calms most people’s nerves, unless you’re a shaman.” Scotch stared at a trio of golden equines having a sword fight on the shelves. “Wait… No, it’s impossible. You’re a pony.”

“And I’m a shaman,” Scotch answered. One of the little golden blobs on Taliba’s shoulder stretched itself up and whispered in Taliba’s ear. The mare immediately sat back, eyes so wide Scotch half-expected them to roll out of their sockets. “You’re a shaman too?” Scotch asked back to break the shock.

“I… am. Many librarians are,” she breathed as she leaned towards Scotch in fascination. “This is amazing. First you come bearing news of the dark one’s destruction at the hooves of a pony, and you perceive the spirits as well? Either alone should merit a Conclave!”

Now that she knew what she was seeing, she relaxed. Hundreds of the little golden blobs were crawling all around them. Some flew through the air, others floated as if on a breeze. “Well, I doubt those two would believe it either, since this is supposed to be a zebra thing.” She reached out with a hoof and one of the little blobs grabbed it. “What are these? Story spirits?”

“You can see them?” she gasped. “What do they look like? Are they the characters from the stories?”

That was right. Not every shaman perceived spirits the same way. “They look like little golden blobs to me.” She then spotted one quite different floating over a scroll. It resembled a fractal, crystalline pattern like a snowflake that slowly shifted and mutated. “That one is different though. It’s like a crystal.”

She rushed over to the scroll and carefully unwrapped it. As she did, the crystal drifted over her head, its facets shifting and gleaming. “It’s a document on calculus.” She reached over and picked up a book, holding it before Scotch. “What about this one?”

Scotch narrowed her eyes, and a golden zebra equine rose from the cover. “Just a glowy zebra shape.”

“It’s the Story of Count Peu-Peu the Bold,” she said, and no sooner did she identify it that the blob shifted. Its legs became thin and knobby, its gut stuck out in a bulbous mass, its muzzle became huge and mule-ish, and a banged-up crown perched atop its head.

“Whoa. It’s changed now,” Scotch said in amazement. She described the now more sharply-defined zebra. Then she added, “I think it keeps winking at me.”

“That’s Count Peu-Peu!” Taliba gushed in glee. “You’re actually seeing him. He was the ugliest, smelliest, crudest zebra ever, but was notorious for romancing powerful mares.” Scotch watched the ugly zebra take off his crown and bow to her, then blow her a tiny, slobbery kiss with his flappy lips. Taliba snatched up another book, and another. Technical text spirits formed abstract shapes, increasingly elaborate the more complicated the subject matter became. A children’s book was a simple cube. A dissertation on the second Empire’s economic system had so many moving parts she got a headache just looking at them. Stories started vague, but then resolved in greater and greater detail with just a few explanations. And when Taliba lifted one pink book, the blobs instantly formed into a pair of golden alicorns, one almost white, the other a dark orange.

“Princess Luna and Celestia?” Scotch guessed before Taliba could explain. Their sun and moon cutie marks appeared as soon as the words were out of her mouth. The lighter spirit zapped the smaller one, and it rose up, transforming into an orb. “Her banishing Luna to the moon?”

Taliba gaped at her. “It’s the banishment of the Maiden of the Stars, but yes.” She set it aside. “Fascinating. I have no idea what it means, but it’s fascinating!”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I wish my life was a lot less fascinating,” Scotch said as she looked at the countless tiny spirits. Some of them weren’t glowing at all. Some seemed as if they were inkstained. “What’s this?” she asked as she carefully lifted a scroll, peering at the tiny glyphs through the stained parchment.

“Oh, that. Perchauld’s essays on the ‘Great 213th Caesar’. Pure propagandized garbage. I’d throw it out but Jahi says there’s value in studying lies.” Scotch saw something dark creeping along the backside of the scroll, but as she watched the creature faded from sight. All the glowing, golden shapes were. She reached down and took her cup of tea and guzzled it down, even swallowing the dregs swirling at the bottom of the cup.

The black blob that had faded from view reappeared in her hooves. “It’s not golden, like the others,” she said as she squinted at it, watching it jiggle. “It’s like…”

The blob erupted upward like a geyser, reaching out and engulfing her head as the world swirled away.

Sound was the first thing she became aware of. Chanting rose from the gloom like approaching thunder: “Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar!” It rose from a vast host that emerged from the blackness like an inky mass. Dozens of zebras standing in tight ranks, dressed in ebony armor. “Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar!” chanted hundreds of voices. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. More and more appeared as darkness resolved into the specter of an immense stadium filled with row upon row of zebras standing in a grid, facing a stage.

“Okay, this is weird,” she muttered, alarmed, but it wasn’t as if any of these zebras could see or hurt her, right?

Then the closest looked down at her. They didn’t stop chanting, but they didn’t stop watching either. Her stomach clenched as she turned toward the stage and approached, walking down the rows of chanting zebras. The oily black floor sucked at her hooves, like she was trying to trot on tar. The closer she approached, the more elaborate the zebras’ armor became, with feathers and plumes and spikes. Elite legionnaires?

She crept warily between guards standing at the stairs leading up to the stage. They glared down at her, and yet none of them moved to stop her ascent. This was something like last time. A vision? Did shamans do this a lot? When she’d been on the moon with Blackjack, she’d had a vision like this, but she’d been a unicorn and they were all freaky weird.

Except Charity. She was just a jerk.

On the stage stood fancier zebras in ornate armor, with medals and ribbons and epaulets. Thirteen of them stood proudly shoulder-to-shoulder on the left side of the stage. On the right was a more eclectic assortment of twelve– no, thirteen as well. They ranged from a huge, rigidly muscled zebra with a permanent scowl carved into his features to a beautiful mare with her mane flowing down to her shoulders.

To Pythia.

No, not Pythia. The mare resembled Pythia’s mom, or how Pythia might look in twenty or thirty years. She stood at the end of the row next to a tiny, terrified zebra mare with swirly stripes who seemed to want to be anywhere but on that stage. It was like the poster, but horribly real and stripped of all levity. Staring at the dark copy of her friend, she remembered her shock and horror. Scotch owed Pythia an apology.

“Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar!” the chanting continued, rising higher and higher. Then the soldiers broke into a frenzy of cheering as a final figure stepped from the gloom and approached. Each step made the ground resonate with it with each footfall, as if the earth itself were a hollow drum announcing his approach. Unlike the other figures, this one wasn’t some black shadow. A spotlight created a single pillar of illumination, and he stepped into it like it was a breaking dawn. This was the sun, golden and glorious. A brilliant headdress of the burnished metal rested upon his brow. Ribbons of silk marked with strange and elaborate glyphs draped his muscled limbs.

Oh, and he was huge.

Not just big like Gāng had been big. His alicorn-sized body loomed over the other zebras on stage, towering more than twice the height of the rest. The light overhead cast his strong, square chin and symmetrical features in stark relief. Bold, golden eyes stared unflinchingly at the assembly. Two more spotlights focused upon him. Then two more. Another pair. He stood in a corona before the assembled passes. A breeze caught the ribbons, and they snapped out dramatically as he stood before them all, lifted one foot, and brought it down with a thud that sent a ripple out through the crowd. Instantly the chanting died.

“My people,” he said in a thunderous voice that rippled out across the assembled legions. “Today we gather to address the most dangerous threat our country and our culture has ever faced. Today marks the end of a precipitous year since the Maiden of the Stars usurped her sister’s throne and seized control of Equestria. Already she has remade the government in her image, and constructed vile ministries to aid her in her profane schemes, but these ministries will avail her no better than her sister’s government did her. My people! We must continue our fight against the stars! We are many and we are strong, and we are merciful. In time, the ponies will realize their tragic mistake of governance, but until then we must continue the fight! We must remind them that this is their war, started in a manic need for our wealth and resources. They must be humbled.”

He then swept a hoof to his left. “We have the greatest military minds the world has ever known! With their cunning and courage, we will drive out the pockets of pony occupation, take their lands, and show them our benevolent rule!

“I know they ask much of you. I know many of the tribes, in their small and simple vision, protest the steps needed to wage a conflict with ponykind. The Achu have risen to the challenge, while the Mendi hew and cry for surrender. The Propoli devise ever more vital technologies to aid in our defense, while the Zencori quibble and bicker over minutiae. The Carnilians send their sons and daughters to fight while the Eschatik forswear our people!” He roared, spitting out his vitriol at the assembly, “They would rather live under the hoof of foreigners beyond the sea! They do not care if they are ruled by an emissary of the stars themselves!” He paused, lifting his immense chin as his golden eyes glared out at the legions. “They shall learn. In this struggle, all are involved, as ally or enemy. There is no other ground.”

They erupted in shouts and roars, breaking into another refrain of chanting “Kai-Sar” as his anger melted to a warm, paternal smile. He then gestured to his right. “To that end, in a show of uniformity and loyalty, the tribes have sent forth their greatest heroes, united in furthering the cause of the Empire and assisting us against our direst foes.” He then paused and gave a throaty chuckle. “Oh. My apologies. Twelve. The Eschatik saw fit to send an ‘observer’.” He grinned, his laugh echoed by the crowd. He shook his head with a generous, if patronizing, smile. “They will learn. In war, there are no observers. No bystanders. Everyone is involved.”

He threw his hooves wide. “I hear your pleas for you and your children’s protection and safety! As the spirits have vested me with power to be your leader, so too do I vest my generals to protect you! So do I vest these Terrific Twelve heroes to defend you! Let the spirits of the sky hear my words! Let the Eye of the World see my deed! Let the earth itself feel my resolve! It is not my power! It is our power! The power of our people!”

As Scotch watched, golden light flowed out of him and fanned out like great wings to envelop the arrayed generals and heroes. Each of them seemed to stiffen and refine, somehow growing larger. Only the Pythia mare and the cringing Eschatik remained the same. The former rejected the golden light as it crashed against an invisible bubble; the latter, it seemed, was simply exempt from the blessing.

And as the heroes and generals all grew a little, the Caesar himself seemed to contract. He was definitely half again as large as the others, but the effort clearly weakened him. He staggered to one side, and the beautiful long maned mare immediately moved to him. He gave her a loving smile, and then stiffened, rising to face the multitudes once more.

“I’m sure my detractors never thought they’d see the day, but I happily share my power as Caesar with my people.” He gave them all a generous smile. “If I could, I would extend my mantle to each and every one of you. It must be up to my generals, and my heroes, to do so in my place. Together, we move forward to overthrow our enemy and their Princess. To save them from their own folly! To return our lands to peace and prosperity. Together. United! One!”

The legions went mad, chanting his name over and over again. The long-maned mare walked with him from the stage, the generals following suit, and the heroes following them, though more than a few heroes lingered about the stage. The older Pythia was speaking in low tones to the Eschatik mare, who appeared ready to wet herself.

Then Scotch frowned as an odd thought niggled at her. All the other heroes were clearly defined. They might all have been monochromatic, but she could clearly make out their features. All except for one. It stood, almost abstract amid the others. No definite features. Not too fat, nor that thin. Neither large nor small. Scotch stood before it, screwing up her face in bafflement. She wasn’t even sure if it was supposed to be a mare or stallion! It also wasn’t reacting. Even the admittedly identical legionnaires were chanting, but this one simply stood like a statue.

“Who–” she started to say, reaching out with a hoof, and touching it. The surface rippled, as if the entire equine shape were fluid. It slowly lowered its face to look at her.

“YOU!” it screamed, tendrils and spikes erupting from its body as it lunged and seized her in a crushing embrace. “YOU! YOU! YOU! YOU!” It howled as its tendrils tightened, choking air from Scotch’s lungs as she struggled. Its mouth split impossibly wide, revealing a maw filled with hundreds of jagged teeth in multiple rows and barbed tongues flicking out and trying to pull her in. “YOUUUUUUU!” it howled at the top of its lungs in glee.

As she looked around at her surroundings in desperation, the inky black protrusions trying to press into her mouth and nostrils, Scotch saw the adult Pythia staring at her. Her eyes changed from monochromatic gray to yellow as she gazed at Scotch, and said sharply, “Wake up.” Scotch could feel jabs of pain and the sharp wet crack of her throat collapsing. “Wake up!” Pythia repeated, reaching over and shaking her hard. Her spine prickled as its jaws closed down on her head. “Wake up, you damned green idiot!”

Scotch shot upright, gasping for air as the scroll tumbled from her hooves. She coughed and hacked, struggling for breath. Pythia crouched beside her. “Idiot. When are you going to realize spirits can be dangerous?” she muttered as she brushed Scotch’s mane out of her eyes.

“What happened? Why did she react like that?” Taliba asked in shock. “She stared at the scroll and had an attack. That noise… I’ve never heard anything like that before.” She stared at the fallen scroll as if it might transform into a serpent and bite her. “That scream...”

Pythia leaned over and lifted Scotch’s teacup, holding it up to her muzzle and giving a sniff. “Spirit mint. You gave her spirit mint?” she asked, rounding on Taliba. “Are you mad?”

“It relaxes me and brings the voices of the spirits close to my ears,” Taliba said, keeping her eyes on Scotch. The filly felt something sticky coming out her nose, and touched a hoof to her lips. It came back red.

“It also brings us closer to the spirits. That’s why it’s a sacred plant, you idiot,” Pythia hissed as she looked Scotch over. “This pony’s not just a shaman, she’s the most spiritually sensitive shaman I’ve ever run into. Your relaxing tea was a recipe for something nasty getting inside her skull.” She peered into Scotch’s eyes. “She’s already been censured. She doesn’t need to be possessed too.”

Taliba stared at Pythia now. “You’re a shaman, too?”

“I am not a shaman,” Pythia answered as she kept turning Scotch’s head. “Damn it. Why do you always hit the futures with a one in a thousand chance of happening? Why can’t you just stumble down the futures where you have tea, get insulted, get annoyed, and we leave?”

“Guess I’m cursed,” Scotch muttered thickly.

“Cursed?” Taliba drew back, as if curses were colds. “How? Who is she?”

“A big ol’ pain in my tail,” Pythia replied. Her yellow eyes darted around before she relaxed. “Okay. Massive headache. Lots of arguments. A few tears. No futures where you’re possessed in the next few days.” She scowled and tapped Scotch’s chest. “Don’t make any.”

As if on cue, Scotch’s massive headache throbbed to life as she sat down hard and groaned. Taliba peered at Pythia now. “You’re a seer. How could you not see this happening?”

Pythia whirled on her and pointed an accusing hoof. “What, you think reading the future is easy? That it’s just one story from beginning to end?” She shook her head. “Most futures are ordinary and mundane. Nothing happens. But there are always outliers. Things that are a-hundred-to-one odds. There’s a future where I get struck by lightning, but only if I’m standing at a certain place and time. Not a big deal if I avoid it. Big deal if I don’t.”

Taliba balked and lowered her pink eyes. “My apologies. It’s just, in the stories, seers’ visions are always so much more… accurate.”

“Yeah, well, stories are stories and the real thing is a lot less reliable, but it’s all I’ve got,” Pythia muttered as she looked down at Scotch. She paused a moment, gazing at the shelves. “Stories… She needs a book on being a shaman. Some sort of text or… You must have something.”

Taliba laughed. “A book? On being a librarian?” she said in disbelief. “It’s not something you learn from books. It’s taught, master to apprentice, old to young. If she stayed here for several years, perhaps I could teach her myself.”

“That’s not happening. All those futures end with a lot of death and screaming. I looked already,” Pythia said, staring at the stacks. “I can’t believe you don’t have a single book on shamanism here.”

“We have many, but they’re referential to other works. Essays. Theories. Stories. If she were an apprentice for five or six years, she might be able to understand them. But something that just anyone could read and understand?” she said skeptically, shaking her head. “It’s just not that simple.”

A little glowing blob floated over and touched down on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. “No, you can’t be–” She paused as the blob continued speaking in its strange, musical language. “But it’s…” She trailed off, ear twitching as the zebra blob jabbed a hoof out. “We might have something.”

“This would be a whole lot easier if you’d teach me,” Scotch muttered to Pythia.

“I can’t. I can’t even tell you why I can’t, that’s how much I can’t,” Pythia answered, then snirked. “It’s okay. She’s got something that will help.”

Taliba returned with a thick book. Unlike the others, its cover wasn’t leather but ordinary cardstock, edges worn white. Still, the original bright yellow colors were visible, as was the odd triangular-headed cartoon-like picture of a zebra on the cover pointing up a helpful hoof. The glyph-written title was simple, straightforward, and perfect: Shamanism for Idiots.

“I think this will be perfect,” Scotch mumbled, hugging the book to her chest.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a book or two on the Eye of the World, and if or how it could be blinded?” Pythia asked. Taliba froze, and Pythia raised a hoof at her horrified expression. “Nevermind. I can see the answer’s no in every future.” Taliba was making little strangled notes in the back of her throat. “Yeah, I get it. ‘Who could do such a thing? Who could think such a thing?’ Just asking.” The whining noise increased. “You’re not going to be getting me a book on the Eye of the World, are you?”

“Blind… the Eye… of the World?” Taliba stammered. “I– you– How? Why?” She trembled, then whirled, bent over, and retched.

“I’m starting to think it’s a good thing I didn’t know about this Eye thing before coming here,” Pythia murmured lightly.

Taliba wiped her mouth. “The Eye of the World is… it’s the whole point. We live brief lives, but the spirit of the world sees us and remembers us so that even the least of us is not forgotten. You don’t… you can’t… you could never, ever, blind the Eye of the World. Ever!” she said, her face stricken as she looked from one to the other.

“Well, according to a letter we read, that’s what the Caesar ordered,” Pythia replied. “Right before the megaspells went off.”

The mare swept her mane back, visibly trembling. “Do you have this letter? Can I see it?”

Scotch opened her mouth to say yes when Pythia shot her a serious look and said, “It was in Equestria.” While that was technically true, it omitted the fact the letter was sitting right in Pythia’s saddlebags.

Taliba blinked, then slouched. “It must not be true. It can’t be. If it were… if such a thing were even possible… It would be the greatest betrayal of our kind against the world.”

“Let me guess, there’s a story involved?” Pythia asked. Thunder rumbled distantly as rain hissed against the stone tiles of the tower, and Scotch briefly glanced down behind her toward the door. The rain outside must be getting worse.

Taliba took a deep breath. “The first shamans, in antiquity, called out to the spirit of Equus itself. We were a weak people, fleeing from dangerous enemies who sought to enslave and devour us. Without help, we could not endure. So they made a great rite that called out to the spirit of the world itself. The All-Mother. The Lifespring. The Eldest. So many different names. And it heard our plea and turned its eye upon us.”

Scotch and Pythia shared a look. “So what happened?”

“An agreement was struck. We would be given agency to deal with the spirits, and the spirits would in turn gift our leaders with agency and power to fight our foes. We were to be stewards of the land, not conquerors. Caretakers, not masters. Much of the land was left to spirits, or to other beings that could live peacefully alongside us. So long as this covenant is honored, our race is blessed. To blind the Eye of the World is… it’s…”

“Unthinkable. Horrible. A terrible betrayal. Right,” Pythia said. “Well, we’re going to find out if someone actually did it or not.” Another peal of thunder sounded, closer this time as the storm rolled up the valley.

Taliba seemed to compose herself, though her eyes were harrowed. “Please, keep in contact with me. Any Zencori village will send messages to a librarian. Please. I need to know. Our people need to know the truth.”

In spite of everything, Scotch smiled. The readiness with which the master and historian had dismissed the truth had been disheartening to say the least. “People might not believe it.”

Taliba shook her head, looking at the books. “This has been my home. I’ve lived between these shelves since I was a filly, raised by Baruti and Jahi. Books have been my whole world, and I am happy here. But if the world outside is changing, our people must know. Zencori, yes, but all the other tribes as well. What you are doing… the quest you are on… it’s important to all our people.”

“Don’t tell Majina. She’d never stop if you tell her we’re questing,” Pythia warned Scotch.

“Oh, come on. She’ll love it,” Scotch teased back. Then she turned to Taliba, “Thank you for your help.”

“I wasn’t very useful,” she said with a nervous smile as she rubbed her foreleg, then glanced back at the puddle of vomit behind her. “I should clean that. Excuse me.” She moved off towards her little kitchenette.

Scotch hugged the book and slipped it into her saddlebags. It might not have been a teacher, but it was something! The tea was wearing off, the golden equine blobs disappearing from sight. Her skull still pounded, but a walk in the rain would help. Then she caught sight of Pythia’s distracted gaze and frown. “What’s wrong? All in all, this was a good stop.”

“Trouble. The future is getting really bloody all of a sudden,” she said. “We should get moving again.”

It would be good to find out if the Whiskey Express was free or not. It had only been an hour at most. She nodded and they headed downstairs. Majina was busy standing on her forehooves, rear legs thrust into the air as Baruti looked on. Precious was talking with Jahi while Charity sat by the radio. “What’s going on?”

Precious looked to Jahi and immediately said, “Nothing.” The elder zebra sighed, but said nothing else. “Are you okay? You took the whole… thing… kinda hard.”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” Scotch lied, not okay with it but also not having a clue what she could possibly do about it.

“You have excellent fundamentals,” Baruti said as Majina walked carefully forward on her forehooves. “Balance. Flexibility. Strength would be the next challenge,” he said, tapping her with his cane. “Keep vertical. Once you weaken, your balance will suffer.”

“Momma was an excellent dancer,” Majina said as she took slow steps forward.

“I still can’t believe you Zencori call fighting ‘dancing,’” Charity called out from the radio. “What do you call shooting?”

“Undignified, loud, and brutish,” Baruti replied. “The art of movement on a stage is every bit as poetic as words spoken. Fighting onstage, like fighting in real life, is about control, balance, focus, and will. Acting. Dancing. Speaking. All critical fundamentals for any filly dedicated to the arts.”

“Rote memorization skills would serve her far better,” Jahi sighed, the gestured to Precious. “This young lady is an excellent example of studious attentiveness. She’d been plumbing the depths of my knowledge of dragons. Quite an extensive subject.”

“Big. Scaly. Greedy. Crude. Yeah, pretty extensive alright,” Charity said. “Are we going to go?” She tore off a chunk of brown bread and munched on it. “I mean, the food’s okay but watching her flop around is about as interesting as hearing Precious ask about dragons eating people.”

“In a bit,” Scotch said with a frown. “Where’s Skylord?”

“Dunno,” the unicorn said with a shrug. “We were listening to the radio and that Dr. Z. came on. Said that the Blood Legion attacked some place called Iron Town. Then Skylord headed outside; said he needed to use the toilet.”

“Oh crap,” Scotch swore as she rushed out into the rain. She knocked on the outhouse door. No answer.

“Please, please, please don’t be stupid,” she begged as she shielded her eyes with a hoof, looking towards the top of the tower. A brilliant flash and rumble of thunder came from the west as forks of light streaked across the sky. No sign of him on the roof.

That left one place to check. Precious and Pythia emerged from the tower as she raced towards the bunker at the edge of the village. Zencori moved aside as she tore past them, swerving around the trees and cutting across the planter gardens. “Please please please please…” she repeated, praying to see him.

She did. He stood outside the bunker, rain water dripping off the barrels of his rifles. Before him, lying prone in the mud, were three legionnaires. Their bodies were twisted in unnatural angles, their weapons still sheathed and holstered. “What did you do?” she asked as she slid to a stop in the mud, her chest on fire as she started to cough. “What were you thinking?!”

“I did what I’m supposed to do!” Skylord shouted back. They attacked my home! My legion! My people!”

“They did?” Scotch demanded, gesturing to the corpses. “These three did?”

“They’re all Blood Legion. They’re all my enemy!” he countered. Precious and Pythia ran up, the former’s eyes wide and the latter glaring at the griffon. “I had to!”

“Scotch,” Pythia said, “get on your radio. Check their radio signal.” Then she closed her eyes, whispering, “Please be wrong.”

Scotch turned it on, tuning in to the frequencies the Blood Legion used. Behind them the village was congregating, along with the rest of their friends. Suddenly the radio crackled to life. “–224 under attack! I repeat, Bunker 224 is under attack. A griffon with the Iron Legion! Send backup at once. They attacked from the village. I repeat. They attacked from the village. Send back up to 224!”

“We have to go. Now!” Charity snapped.

“I am afraid that is not an option,” Master Baruti said gravely, the rain dripping off his hat. “You have violated our hospitality and Tradition.” He turned away, waving a hoof. “Take them, and give them to the Blood Legion when they arrive.”

Author's Notes:

Well folks. Another chapter down and more trouble for Scotch. I didn't mean for this to be another Horizons, but apparently I've crossed the 250,000 word mark. Sigh...

Anyway, thanks so much for reading. Thanks to Kkat for creating Fallout Equestria. Thanks to Bro, Icy Shake, Heartshine, and special guest editor Izzy for getting rid of the many mistakes and bugs. Also, thanks to Tetrakern, who's helping me with formating and my original writing. Huge thanks to my patreons, and thanks to everyone who supports me there and with direct donations to Paypal. You guys literally keep me alive.

Otherwise, not much else to say. June was bleugh, but I'm hoping that July will be more productive.

Take care, and thanks so very much for reading.