Fallout Equestria: Homelands

By Somber

Chapter 18: The Last Command

Scotch stood transfixed by the surreal sight of hundreds of thousands of salt encrusted bones scrambling all at once towards her little group. They were so overwhelming in number that terror gave way to stunned curiosity without skipping a beat. First, at how so many bones that weren’t supposed to move without flesh attached were. Second, at the variety arrayed before and against them, from the familiar equine bones to the enormous dragon bones that dwarfed them, that made it seem as if a great panoply of stringless puppets was racing across the salt flat. Just the sight of teams of skeletons pulling carts, wagons, and chariots got her to tilt her head sideways at the practical use of necromancy and let out a ‘huh.’

The sheer peculiarity of her situation kept her panic at bay for all of five seconds, because she was finally and profoundly aware of the fact that a legion general had decided to show up and kill them with a damned army of the dead!

“I didn’t see that,” Pythia murmured as she stared in horror. “How did I not see that?”

“Who cares? Run!” Scotch yelled, butting her friend in the rump to get her moving.

Down in the camp, the Propoli settlers didn’t seem to share her alarm as they quietly bundled up foals and loaded their spare equipment. It took her several seconds to realize the calm wasn’t from indifference to the threat, but from practiced response to danger. Every zebra had a job to do, and did it without quibble or debate. The engines were being fed pelletized coal, the efficient boilers barely emitting any smoke as the tractors built up steam.

Unfortunately the Whiskey Express was in no shape to run anywhere. Scotch found herself doing cruel arithmetic as she calculated the time it would take to get the boiler going, build up steam, and how fast they could move on a damaged axle versus abandoning the vehicle that still wanted to serve her. After talking with it, it felt like leaving a friend behind.

Yet when she arrived at the Whiskey Express, she was astonished to see a second steam tractor backed up to it. The large, six wheeled vehicle possessed a strange clawlike apparatus which Xharo was hooking under the tractor’s bent front axle. With the pull of a lever the metal hooks lifted the front right off the ground! “What?” Xharo asked as she looked at him funny. “You didn’t expect us to just leave you behind, did you?”

“Um… no?” Scotch said, rather unconvincingly. Pythia, Majina, and Charity were climbing into the cargo cabin of Xharo’s tractor.

“I put a whole morning into that boiler. I’m not leaving it behind,” he countered sourly and jabbed a hoof at her, adding, “Also, Mom said you’re coming with us.”

Xharo, Precious, and Skylord secured the Expresswith chains. “Do you have a direction?” Scotch called to Xharo as the other families loaded up. The tractors started to roll out, moving in two neat rows with the Whiskey Express bringing up the rear.

“South. It’s the fastest way away.”

The Bone Legion chariots moved swiftly around to cut off the fleeing vehicles; the small carts, each occupied by a pair of zebras, were drawn by skeletal griffons which flew along the ground. The zebras weren’t shooting though. Scotch slipped into S.A.T.S. to study them in the slowed time, scowling as she saw the one in the back fiddling with a round, metal disk.

“They’ve got mines!” she yelled. Xharo immediately clambered off the Whiskey Express and onto the roof of the tow tractor. “You’ve got weapons on these things, right?”

“Most settlements don’t allow armed tractors inside,” he shouted back. The tractors weren’t at full steam yet, and if they had to slow to deal with mines…

“I got it,” Skylord said as he hopped on to the rear of the tractor, dug in his claws, and became a one griffon bullet hose. Scotch doubted he hit anything besides salt, but kept it to herself. At least it made one or two of the chariots pull further back. A little.

“Do you have any idea how much money you’re wasting!?” Charity shrieked from the rear of the lead tractor, hanging out to jab a hoof at her. “Aim, damn it! Aim!”

“I am aiming!” he snapped as he loaded a fresh magazine into the automatic pistol before letting off another wild spray of fire.

“That’s the opposite of aiming!” she screamed at him, finishing after he’d emptied his magazines again.

“You have any idea how hard one of these is on my wrist?” he snapped back as he reloaded. “If you can do better, then be my guest!”

Fortunately, Skylord wasn’t the only armed person on the convoy. There were four others who lugged up strange boxy contraptions, settled them on their shoulders, and released beams that flashed through the salty, dusty air. Zebras? With arcane energy weapons? Where did they get the gems for them?

She really hoped that she lived long enough to find out!

The smattering of lancing beam fire, like Skylord’s mad barrages, did little harm to the charioteers, but at least it looked like they’d given up trying to mine the flat ahead of the tractors, and still weren’t firing back. No, it seemed like they were just trying to keep the convoy from scattering.

“I got a bad feeling about this.”

From the back of the tractor pulling the Whiskey Express, Pythia started screaming, “Stop! Stop!” But that was crazy. There was a whole army of the dead behind them, and they weren’t far behind!

That was when the worm appeared.

It erupted like a wall, shedding massive scales the salt that thudded down in the path of the lead vehicles. Its mottled gray hide oozed a brackish slime from its ulcerated flesh. It turned its pointed head, which split into three jaws that stretched wide enough it could have swallowed the lead tractor whole. Black tentacles stretched out of its cavernous maw as it let out a rancid, burbling roar. Then the ground next to it erupted and the titanic worm was joined by a second. A third.

But as horrifying as they were, it was what they did to the flats that was most devastating. They breached the salt perpendicular to the tractors, creating a broken ditch filled with salty sludge. One tractor tried to stop, but its front end disappeared into the groove with a white splash, flipping over and then bursting as the boiler blew. From the lack of screams, it had gone mercifully quick for the occupants.

Their escape had lasted all of three miles. A few tried to drive up into the rocky hills, but immediately Bone Legionnaires emerged and opened fire with a relaxed, almost disinterested barrage. The skeletons, worm, and legionnaires pushed them back into a tight knot, then stopped.

“Still think the Bone Legion is a joke?” Precious asked Skylord.

“I didn’t know they had those!” he countered, jabbing a hoof at the worms, which weren’t doing much more than acting as very slimy walls. “But give me a half dozen two-twenties, a good spotter with a radio, and an ammunition train and we’d powder these bones!” he countered as a skeletal dragon stalked closer to the Propoli tractors. Ossius stood on a platform on its back, surrounded by a knot of legionnaires covered head to hoof in intricately carved bone armor.

“And do you have any of that?”

“If we would have gone through Irontown… maybe I would!” He strained his wings against the bindings and shot Scotch a dirty look as Ossius approached. Scotch sighed and stepped forward. They were caught. The least she could do was spare Xharo and his family and her friends.

“Both of you be quiet and get behind the rest!” Pythia hissed. “Remember, these guys hate Irons and dragons!” With a sullen look, the pair melted into the back of the crowd, hunching down behind the zebras.

The dragon creaked as it settled down, the zebras hopping off its back and striding across the salt flat. Ossius’s bloody smirk poked out of his rags as he walked up towards the camp without the slightest bit of fear that one of the settlers might harm him or take him hostage.

“Propoli!” He strode towards the settlers’ leader. “I thought you were going to go north. I was waiting for you and now you’re going south?”

“We heard of a closer, more promising site on the edge of the badlands,” the Director answered, standing stiffly, back against a tractor.

“Really?” He cocked his head and regarded her. “Where?” The Director’s mouth worked silently, as if she were suddenly muted. Ossius approached her, his guard fanning out behind him.

“What do you want, Ossius?” Xona piped up. “If you want to take our tractors, say so. If you want to kill us, then just do it.” That made Ossius consider her.

“You are not director, Xona!” the director mare suddenly snapped. That drew Ossius’s eye back to her, and she immediately blanched. “Er, what can we do for you, great General Ossius of the Bone Legion?”

“Propoli,” he sighed, then shook his head. “What I want is simple. Resources for my legion. Bones for my soldiers. Death to my enemies. It’s really no deeper than that.” He regarded a cracked hoof. “I had hoped you’d end up nice and stranded in the Empty, but then I heard some ponies of all things came and warned you not to cross. Then you hesitated. I was concerned.” He suddenly leered at the Director, licking his bleeding, cracked lips. “The legions exist for your protection, Director,” he purred as she started to tremble.

Scotch felt something off. If he wanted to kill them all, what was with all the talking? Maybe he liked the sound of his own voice? She guessed he didn’t get very many audiences this big. All she knew was that she had to stop all these people being killed. The only trouble was she had no idea how.

Then the Director pointed a shaky hoof right at Scotch Tape. “She did it! She and her friends! They crossed the Empty! It was them! They said you were trying to trap us.”

It was amazing how quickly the crowd parted around Scotch, leaving her suddenly exposed.

Ossius stared at her, his bloody smile disappearing as he drew near. His attention now off her, the Director sat down hard. Ossius didn’t say anything for nearly a minute as he regarded Scotch, the wind making his strips of linen snap.

“So you’re the one they want,” Ossius said in a near whisper, like salt hissing over the flat. “Interesting.”

“Please don’t kill them,” Scotch murmured, her eyes raising up to meet his. “The Propoli or my friends.” His bloody lips curled, but she didn’t drop her gaze. “Please.”

“You think begging will work on me?” he scoffed. “You’re not the first to try.”

“No, but I hope you’re more than just a murderer,” Scotch retorted, her voice strengthening as she locked her gaze with his. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer again for a long moment, and Scotch felt herself being drawn and quartered by his pale gray stare. “Interesting. I don’t encounter many interesting things in the Wastes” he murmured, then turned his back on Scotch, walking away a few steps before turning and pointing a hoof at her. “You will come with me. The Propoli will return their tractors to my camp. Those that attempt to flee will not receive my generosity a second time.” With that he started back towards the dragon.

“Good! We’d be happy to be your guests a little longer, oh great and mighty–” the Director said in a rush as Ossius passed her.

The general suddenly whirled and grabbed the sides of her head. His mouth spread wide, and a scream filled the air. Not from his throat… no. It was as if the scream rose from a thousand throats all around them. As if the land itself was wailing. And the Director screamed right along, mouth wide as her hide suddenly shrank against her ribs… then split open to unleash a bloody slurry. The ragged tatters of her hide curled and split as her mane was carried away on the wind. In less than ten seconds, she’d been transformed from a mare into a pile of shiny bones and rotten sinew. As she fell, he released the skull.

“I hate ass kissers,” he stated, then pointed a hoof at Xona. “Congratulations. You’re the new director. Get your people back in camp and keep them in line.” He took three steps back towards the dragon and paused, looking at Scotch. “Well?”

“No way! No way!” Precious said as she moved up next to Scotch. “No way she’s going with a guy that melts faces! And bodies! And… no!” She jabbed a claw at Scotch. “This whole you giving yourself up as hostage stuff is bhramin crap!”

“Do you want him to melt yours?” Scotch countered. That had to have been Enervation, the deadly radiation that melted ponies back in the Hoof, or something like it! “I’ll be fine, right?” she said, looking at Pythia. She glanced at the general, who watched with an inscrutable expression.

The cloaked filly swallowed. “Two in three he kills you tonight. Make that three out of four.”

“So I’ll try for the one in four he doesn’t,” she countered. “And if we say no?”

Pythia swallowed, her eyes wide and round, and shook her head.

Scotch sighed. “So stay close. Fix the Whiskey Express. Maybe we can find a way out of this.” She glanced at where Ossius watched her, blood drops falling from his chin to the salt below.

“We’ll try to find a way all of us can get out,” Skylord muttered.

“Thank you, Skylord,” Scotch said with a relieved smile.

“Don’t thank me. We’re only doing it because you’d whine and moan rather than cutting these people lose and getting out of here,” he grumbled.

“Gee, thanks,” Scotch amended sarcastically. She then turned and hurried up to the general’s side as he turned and walked back towards the huge dragon skeleton. “Happy?”

“Content,” he answered. “It will take some time to parse through what I have caught. How best to use it,” he said as he strolled beside her. “I note that you’re not questioning why I selected you. That tells me that you expected me to take you. No protestation. Fond farewells. I assume some plan to escape is already in the making.”

Scotch blinked up at him. “You heard us?”

“I guessed. You confirmed,” he replied. “Who are you, pony?”

“Scotch Tape,” she replied, slightly annoyed by the question.

“I know that much from your visit to the gift shop. What I want to know is how six young idiots crossed the Empty. How you got to the Empty in the first place. How you apparently talk to spirits, which was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. But most importantly, I’d like to know why both Haimon of the Blood Legion and the most notorious pirate on the seas want you dead.” He glanced down at her stunned expression. “I caught a pair of griffons the day after your party left, stalking the one called ‘Skylord.’ They told me such interesting things about you and your friends. Hatshepsut too. I knew I simply couldn’t let this opportunity slip by.”

Scotch should have known Gunnel and Gunther wouldn’t just quit after catching them once. “Are they alive?”

“Griffons are rude till they learn they’re in the presence of their betters. I had no specific reason to kill them,” he said as he stepped onto the stairs leading up to the platform atop the dragon’s back. Scotch followed him up. Affixed to the platform were two rows of seats with straps to hold them in place behind a low wall. When the dragon was upright, it would be a considerable advantage in a fight.

Unless you were facing artillery, as Skylord said. Or a flying foe. Or if someone got lucky with a grenade. Scotch filed those thoughts away. At the front of the platform was a hooked pole, and dangling from it a bone carved with glowing sigils. Ossius took a seat in the middle, as far as possible from the edges, then glanced at her and patted a pillow seat beside him. A soldier took the pole in his hooves and tilted it towards the front of the dragon.

Suddenly the floor heaved as the massive beast rose. Pushing the pole further ahead made the skeleton start to walk, and swinging it to the side turned it back towards the train station. “To be fair, I expected to find you trapped at the weather station, dying of thirst and radiation poisoning. When I discovered you’d somehow gotten the coal bunker open and not torn to pieces, I hurried my crossing. How fortunate we intercepted all of you before you left.”

“What do you plan to do with all of us? Kill us? Rape us?” Scotch asked, annoyed by his smug gloating. “Why go through this show? Why not just throw all this back at us on the first day?”

“Because I’m not an idiot,” he replied, and then looked over at her staring at him incredulously. He smiled again, the corners of his mouth starting to bleed again. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s good if folks think we’re a bunch of losers in the Empty. Makes them overlook us. Underestimate us, I don’t want to break the toys, lose men or equipment if it can be helped.”

He went on, looking back at the tractors now following his mount, with the undead horde around them. “As for killing and raping, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll kill all of them and add their bones to the collection. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll take a selection and let my mares and stallions have some fun with someone that’s not half-jerky. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll sell the tractors. Maybe not. I’ll need to work out all the angles, then act.” He paused to gaze at her. “As for rape, I discourage it as a general rule. It makes the victims unpredictable, hurts unit cohesion, and causes conflicts of interest between killing and screwing. Oh, and it’s wrong.” More shock, and he chuckled, “Is it that surprising?”

That a raider warlord was more moral than her own stable? Yes. “Please don’t kill them. That would be wrong too.”

“Perhaps,” he said non-committally. “But death is a part of life, and, sometimes, life is a part of death, too.”

Scotch was having to reassess the stallion before her. It’d been simple to dismiss him as a murderous brute. Murderous, definitely, but more than a brute. She shut up for the rest of the trip back. Soon as the grisly convoy returned to its spot next to the creek, the ground seemed to split around the bones and they crawled back into the salt and rocks. Dozens lay in heaps that were quickly obscured by the blowing dust. As soon as they stepped off the dragon it seemed to dig its way into the salt as if it were mud, till only the spine and platform protruded. The driver removed the staff and they all trudged back to the train station.

Inside, the cavernous space was surprisingly neat. Triple bunk beds occupied half the space. The rest was an eating and living area. No merchant, so Charity would certainly be disappointed.

A mare in similar bone armor strode up. “Have a brisk run, General?” she asked before her brown eyes shifted to Scotch and her lips curled in a sour frown. “Who’s this mare?”

Scotch started.

Mare?

“Person of interest, Lieutenant. Establish a watch. If any of these colonists try to run, deter them.” He glanced down at Scotch and licked his cracked lips. “Gently,” he amended with an amused chuckle.

“There was an incident, General,” she said crisply, glowering even when her eyes were off Scotch. “An Iron Legion griffon and his zebra cohort attacked our forces.”

“I see,” he glanced at Scotch, who gave a desperate grin that wilted as her ears drooped. “I’ll address that after I debrief this pony. Follow me,” he instructed Scotch as he walked towards stairs leading up to the second floor. Scotch followed, her eyes darting to and fro. Every ten feet were metal drums stacked full of equine bones with skulls piled on top, and she felt their empty sockets on her as she passed. If she tried to run, how far could she get?

She followed him up to a room marked ‘Stationmaster’s Office’. “These will be your quarters until such time as I decide to kill you,” he said as he opened the door.

Wow. That’s a lot of books. It was enough to make a Zencori proud. Books covered every piece of furniture in the small office, some stacks reaching all the way to the ceiling. She’d expected bones, or maybe guns, or victims chained to the walls. A tea set rested on a cart next to the iron stove. Through one open door, she spotted a bedroom with a four poster bed wedged inside. Through another were a tiny toilet and shower. From the covered bucket next to the bowl, she suspected they didn’t work.

What most stood out was a strange banner displayed behind a large wooden desk. It had zebra stripes along most of it, but a pair of weighing scales was displayed in the center imposed over a red hoofprint. As she stared at it, an ominous feeling settled over her. It wasn’t of dying, exactly. It was more like getting called to security for breaking her old Stable’s rules. She tried to shift her sight to perceive any spirits that might be present, but Ossius closed the door and walked before her. The ragged ends of his wrappings hissed on the floor as he walked behind the desk, and she tensed when he withdrew something from the bottom.

“Now.” He tossed two cushions on the floor before the desk and took a seat on one. “We’re gonna have ourselves a little chat about who you are and why you’re so important, pony.”

Scotch had gotten used to telling the story at this point, and Ossius took down notes on a scribble pad. A ceiling fan squeaking softly overhead and the tick of a pendulum clock in the corner were the only other sounds as she spoke. When she finished, the questions began. He seemed particularly interested in Riptide, Haimon, what she had done in Greengap, and the events of Rice River, yet he also seemed to ask inconsequential questions, like what was her opinion of the Orah in the swamp, or about the military state of the wasteland back in Equestria. Every answer prompted a note or two, even ones she didn’t provide such as when she refused to talk about her father. When she mentioned being spirit touched and a shaman, he paused and arched a skeptical brow, but just jotted it down as well.

It was night by the time they finished, and her throat burned from all the talking. A bowl of half eaten, salty porridge sat on the floor besides her. She refused to eat any meat, like the ‘pickled’ meal Ossius had partaken of. Twice, the Lieutenant mare had interrupted, giving Ossius updates on the settlers. He’d always wait till she departed before gesturing for Scotch to continue. “Well?” Scotch asked as she finished her last question.

“You’re a liar,” Ossius said, almost bored, and raised a hoof to silence her objections. “You claim that the settlers barely assisted you. If that were so, they would have left you behind. My officer recorded them helping you and aiding in your repairs.” He glanced at her, suddenly struck mute, and he smiled in a leer that split his upper lip. “To be fair, everyone lies. What you lied to protect is what interests me. You lied to shield your friends. That Zencori village. The zebras in Rice River. Even criminals. But you were quite honest in the overall details of your trip.” He closed the pad and tapped it with a hoof. “Interesting.”

“So… what are you going to do?” Scotch asked. “Are you going to kill me? My friends?”

“I should,” he said, pursing his lips. “To be honest, I’m not certain how to proceed. Killing you is a nice, safe solution. The dead are far easier to manage than the living. Still, I’m somewhat concerned about this ‘New Empire’ that is after you. It might be profitable to negotiate a fee from them, then kill you. Still, if this ‘Shadow Legion’ exists… it may be in my interests to send you on your way to spite them.” He tapped the pad. “I had no idea your story would be so… consequential.”

“What do you mean?”

It was almost a minute before he turned his eyes to the banner, as if trying to scrutinize something in its stripes, and responded, “The Bone Legion is not one of the stronger legions. We are not destitute and broken, like the Star Legion, but it would not take much to make us so. We are overlooked simply because few want to fight for desiccated and desolate territory. We use intermediaries like Asheput to hide our wealth from dragons and the odd traveler, keeping up the appearance of rubes and wretches. If the other legions believed we had things worth taking, we’d be far more pressed on all sides. Flames. Bloods. Golds. Even the Irons could cause us trouble.”

“How many legions are there? Like, total?”

He regarded her. “Iron and Blood. Sand and Bone. Green and White. Storm and Wave. Star and Flame. Thorn and Gold.” He paused, and she furrowed her brows. “You notice it too.”

“There’s only twelve?” she asked. “But thirteen keeps coming up with zebras. I just thought…” she paused. “Shadow.”

“Would be the thirteenth,” he finished. “And would explain much, if it is true. Over time, there are incidents that seem innocuous enough in isolation. A general choking on a chicken bone here. An ambush suddenly discovered there. Speculation of such a legion is ripe material for bar talk and spooky tales, but I’ve never had such evidence before me. If there is a thirteenth legion, I have to consider how it threatens my people. What might its agenda be? And how best to use you, in regards to it.”

“You could just let me go.”

“Which might bring trouble to me and my legion. I could just as easily kill you,” he suggested.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said at once.

“Then I won’t let you go, or kill you, till I know what this portends for my legion, agreed?” His raw lips quirked in another ghastly leer.

“Nor my friends. Nor the settlers.”

“That’s quite a lot you’re asking, young mare,” he said, smirk fading. “Your Iron griffon attacked my people.”

She had to give him that. “Fine. I won’t try to escape either.”

“Interesting,” he said, rubbing his chin. “How to guarantee you won’t simply leave, though?”

“You have my word,” Scotch swore.

“It’s been an exceptional day, but I’m not quite at the point of accepting a pony at their word.” He rose to his hooves and trotted to the desk. There was a click, and he withdrew a metal lockbox. A click of tumblers, and he pulled out a dark, rectangular object. Scotch began to hear a distant, ghostly screaming she hadn’t heard since Blackjack blew up the Hoof.

The book he produced had an unmistakable deliberacy to its hideousness. The shadowy gray leather binding had darker, brownish stripes on it, and her stomach twisted as she guessed it was zebra hide. “Is that…”

“A black book of the Starkatteri Starlords. Our ancient and wretched oppressors who sought to bind their souls to these tomes rather than let their dead god consume them. You’ve come across another of these books, have you?” he asked, brow arched.

“I haven’t, but there was a unicorn mare who did. The Lightbringer. It did freaky things with blood.” Like bind wounds with it, which had to be as gross as it was creepy.

“Ah, so that’s where it got to. The Book of Blood and Spirit. I’m glad. I can only imagine what the Blood Legion would do with something like that.” He cracked it open, the spine cracking like bone. “This is the book of Binding and Bone.”

“And what do you plan on doing with it?” she asked, swallowing.

“Place a doom upon you. Should you depart without my permission, you will die, your spirit trapped within the corpse of your body. Forever.” He stroked a hoof over a page. “Normally this requires a rather involved ritual to do so against your will, but things can be quite expedited if you agree to the binding.”

Scotch swallowed hard. She’d read snippets of the Lightbringer’s story, but now being in the same room with the book make her feel like ants were crawling in her mane. She couldn’t help herself. She relaxed her sight to try and see the book’s spirit.

She did.

She wished she hadn’t. She now understood why the book screamed.

Instantly, she brought up her porridge, bowing her head as she was violently sick. Thankfully, that was all she expelled. When her heaves finished, she kept squeezing her eyes shut. “That thing is wrong!” she shouted, thrusting a hoof behind her towards the desk. “That… That’s horrible!”

“It’s bound in zebra hide, its vellum culled from foals, fused with the souls of ancient Starkatteri sorcerers who conspired with abominations from beyond the skies, filled with profane rites and rituals to slay the living and animate their corpses,” Ossius commented dryly as he produced a rag from his desk and tossed it on her mess. “Did you expect it to be pink with bunnies?”

Scotch cleaned up her own vomit, happily. The rankness helped sour away the memory of what she’d just seen. “Please put it away! Put it away!” she begged. No spirit should go through… that. She heard the box close, but she could still see it. Hear it. Was it still making the noise, or was it in her mind? When she dared open her eyes again, she saw Ossius regarding her gravely and couldn’t stop the tears or the shaking. “Where did you get that?! Why are you keeping it in your desk?” It should be in a hole somewhere. The deepest hole in the world. Or at the bottom of the ocean. Some place it would never be seen again.

“Well, it would be rather hard to carry wearing just strips of clothing. I suppose I could put it on my mantel though. A nice display piece,” he retorted. “As for where did I get it, it’s been in the possession of the Bone Legion since before I was born. As I understand it, it was seized from the vault of a doomsday cult in the capital. They committed suicide en masse and transformed themselves into undead monstrosities to prepare for the coming apocalypse.” His features turned grave. “A week later, the Day of Doom struck.”

“But why keep it around? Don’t you have any idea what that is?” Scotch didn’t. Scotch didn’t want to know what she saw, or how it could come about. She focused on the taste of vomit in her mouth. The reeking smell was better than what she’d seen in that moment.

“It’s useful. Necromancy is my legion’s only asset the others are denied. I agree its origins are repugnant, but what else would you have me do? The book is indestructible. Should I leave it somewhere for someone else to find and use? Perhaps against me and mine?” he asked, sounding somewhat offended. He couldn’t see its spirit. To him, it was an evil book. A thing.

A thing he wanted to use on her.

“I won’t flee. I’ll do whatever you say. Make me swear on whatever you like, but I don’t want anything that book has in it on me,” she said as she fought to control her trembling. He regarded her silently, his hoof tapping on the lid of the box for nearly a minute, his head cocked and scoured lips pressed together.

“Very well,” he said, and he placed it back in the desk. “Though it goes against my better judgement.” Scotch let out a trembling breath, rubbing her chest. She’d already been censured. What would have that dark magic do to her? He walked around the desk, leaning towards her. “Do not prove my better judgement correct,” he warned in a low voice, and stomped twice. A guard stepped in. “A bedroll. I’m keeping this one close.”

Close was a bedroll at the foot of his bed, along with a hoof shackle locking her to it. She crawled in, making herself as small as possible, peeking at him as he removed the glyph marked bands and hung them on a hook. His legs were just as chapped and raw as his mouth, the hide cracked and flaked off to expose the pink flesh beneath. She could only imagine the kind of pain that caused. Then the oil lamp was turned down and she was left with nothing but the dark and her thoughts.

The next morning, she was woken by a hoof to the head. “Get up!” snapped a mare as she blinked about in shock. Ossius was nowhere to be seen. The mare lifted her hoof again over Scotch’s face. “Get! Up!” she warned.

“I’m getting up! I’m getting up!” Scotch shouted, scrambling to her hooves and nearly tripping over the chain about her hind hoof. The mare had straight, broad Roamani stripes and amber eyes, darker than Pythia’s. Her mane and tail were both cut short and neat. “You’re the Lieutenant, right?”

“Lieutenant Foalsitter today, it seems. Ossius wants me to keep an eye on you and keep you alive unless you try to escape. I’ve got better things to do than watch one idiotic pony of interest, so you’re coming with me. You can move, or you can be dragged.”

“I’m moving!” Scotch said, shaking herself off. The mare looped the chain tight around her forehoof and started walking, and Scotch had to hurry or risk being yanked off her feet. She was hauled outside to a latrine behind the train station and given five seconds to do her business, and then pulled over to a cargo container where a dozen other zebras sat waiting, many with that dead eyed stare but others looking somewhat apprehensive. Scotch sat with those as the Lieutenant finally released her from the hoof lock.

Two were young, a mare and stallion with the wavy Orah stripes, while the third was a one eyed Logos who was older than Ossius. “Good news, recruits. We’ve got a pony joining us today.” She kicked a bucket into the middle of the car. “You got fifteen minutes to eat.”

Immediately, two stallions lunged for the bucket, and the Lieutenant reared up and smashed their flanks, knocking them back to the rusty floor. “Everyone eats or no one eats, got it, maggots? You want to fight for your bread, go join the Bloods.”

There wasn’t nearly enough for everyone, but every person got exactly one large hoof scoop at least. It wasn’t much more than a great big ball of paste and grease, and Scotch didn’t even want to know what was in it. Still, she was hungry enough to choke it down. A second bucket for water. Then rags were passed around and everyone made sure that everyone else was completely covered.

And then they started to run.

Running had never been a big thing in 99. There were a few looping halls you could walk down, but the passages were too narrow for more than a brisk trot. And once she’d gotten out, she’d been lucky enough to have other means of travel. Now they fell into two rows and started a canter that wasn’t too fast or too slow. Still, she hadn’t gone ten minutes before her lungs started burning and her legs aching. The rags kept the salt off her, but also chafed and stank. They weren’t really going anywhere. Just around the dunes again and again.

Yet Scotch was in big trouble. After fifteen minutes, she couldn’t catch her breath and coughed continuously. Falling behind, she wondered if the Lieutenant would just put a bullet in her if she did. Except… she wasn’t falling behind. The others were slowing down. “Who’s going to carry her?” the Lieutenant asked, and the one eyed zebra moved next to Scotch without a word and scooped her up, carrying her across his back like a sack. Humiliated, she was hauled along with the rest of the recruits, coughing and wheezing. Every kilometer or two, she was passed from one to the next without comment, which somehow made it all worse.

Getting back to the station, she was set down and promptly abandoned as the others got water and another hoof ball of greasy dough. She didn’t eat, coughing and hacking and holding her chest.

“If you’re gonna die, could you do it outside?” the Lieutenant asked as Scotch struggled to breathe.

“Why not… just… kill me…?” Scotch gasped.

“You are such a baby,” the mare sniffed. “That wasn’t even a long run. Five kilometers. You can cry after twenty.” Scotch wanted to retort but she couldn’t. “The General thinks you’re special. I think he’s wrong, but if I have to keep an eye on you then it’s going to be training the recruits.” She leaned in with a leer. “We are as strong as our weakest link, as fast as our slowest runner, as brave as our most cowardly, and as hard as our softest member. That’s you, on three accounts.”

“Is that a… Roamani thing… or a… Bone Legion thing?” she asked, and was gratified by the surprised look.

“A bit of both, actually,” she admitted as she knelt before Scotch. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you die die. Not till the General orders it,” she said with a smirk, then reached into her rags and pulled out a vial full of tarry syrup. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you die, die. A shot of this will keep anyone alive for a little while. You’ll still be breathing till the General orders you dead. But in the meantime, I’m going to toughen you up or break you, pony. We’ve got a running pool going. I’m betting on the latter.”

“Do you have a name, or is it just ‘Lieutenant’?’” Scotch shot back as she wheezed.

“Lieutenant Marrow,” she growled back. “And yeah, I know I’m young for my rank. Ossius needed an officer. I stepped up. I always step up. So don’t think that because he thinks you’re special that you’ll ever replace me.” She pointed at the bucket. “Eat and drink. Get your breathing under control. We go for another run in an hour.” With that, she hopped out of the boxcar, approaching some waiting legionnaires.

“Replace her?” Scotch murmured in stunned bafflement as she departed. “Replace her for what?”

“Either as lieutenant, or as Ossius’s favorite, or both,” rasped an old voice, and she looked over at the one eyed zebra. He passed her a glob of the dough. “Never thought I’d see a pony in a legion. Crazy world.”

“I’m not in the legion,” she said as she rubbed her chest with her free hoof. “What’s your name?”

“Does it matter? I’m just here till I’m not,” he rasped in a rusty, old voice. “Nobody from nowhere, like everyone else here.”

“It matters to me,” Scotch answered, taking a bite of the gooey blob.

“From the south. Little farm settlement north of Roam. Thought we had our protection paid up with the Golds. We didn’t. Flames came in and took half the people. Month later, took another half. Month after that, there wasn’t much settlement left. Figured going into the Badlands was better than burning to death in Roam. Figured dying with the Bone Legion’s better than dying alone.”

“Why the Bones? And you still didn’t tell me your name. I’m Scotch Tape.”

“Octavius,” he muttered, as if annoyed she’d pulled it out of him. “Bones take everyone. I’m not a fighter. Best I can do is farm.” He gestured to the others in the boxcar. “Everyone here’s got a similar story. We’re here ‘cause we got nowhere else to be.”

Skylord had called them all losers, but was that true? Was it fair? Were these people no better than their circumstances allowed them to be? It was so easy to think of raiders as monsters. Yet not all of them fit into that nice, neat box. Were legionnaires different, somehow? Haimon certainly was proof they took butchery to a whole new level.

Marrow returned twice more to torment them, once with more running, and a second time with an obstacle course. Both times left Scotch Tape gasping, coughing, and being handled like a useless sack of pony. By the time the sun set, she couldn’t do more than curl up on her bedroll at the foot of her bed and cry herself to sleep. She hated that she couldn’t get the tears to stop any more than she could get the coughing to stop. Ossius allowed her her tea, drinking his own in silence, the clock ticking away the time.

When it turned down the lamp, he said quietly, “Good night, pony. Sleep well,” he said in the dim light, before adding. “I’ll likely kill you tomorrow.”

Three days later, as she rested in the shade of a boxcar as the others ran the obstacle course, a soft ‘psst’ sounded on the other side of the steel wall. She saw a green eye peeking through at her and shifted back. “Hey,” Majina said in a whisper. “How are you doing?”

“Can barely breathe,” she croaked. “How are all of you?”

“Ossius came. Said if we didn’t behave, you and the Propoli were dead. They haven’t bothered us since, though.”

“Has Pythia seen a way for all of you to escape?” Scotch asked, keeping her voice low.

“Not yet. Every future is death and shadows and stuff. She says the only ones we live in are ones were Ossius lets us go, but she says how that happens has a shadow on it,” Majina replied. “Skylord wants us to break out and Charity thinks we can bribe the guards. Not sure with what, but they’re both going crazy.”

“They’re going to have to sit tight. I don’t know how serious Ossius is about that threat,” she wheezed as she kept her eyes forward. The sound of the zebras climbing over walls drowned out a lot of it. “I know if I try and run, Ossius isn’t going to be nice a second time. I promised I wouldn’t.”

“You… what?!” Majina blurted, drawing another look from Marrow.

“The alternative was worse, trust me. Just sit tight,” Scotch warned as Marrow approached.

“Okay, but the Propoli are getting scared. They can’t stay one place forever. There’s no food here,” Majina said. Then Scotch heard the sound of her friend moving away.

“Who were you talking to?” Marrow asked.

“Myself,” she replied.

“Yeah, sure. Probably planning something with one of your friends,” Marrow muttered, scanning the boxcars around them. “You know the deal. Screw up and a lot of people die.”

But she wasn’t listening to the threats anymore. They all just blurred together. Something Majina had said stuck with her. No food. She could have kept trying to run with the other recruits, or planning on a way to escape, or beat herself up… but she wanted a fourth option. “What’s your story, Marrow?”

Both her brows arched. “My story? I don’t have a story. I have a job to do.”

“Come on.” Scotch tried for her best Majina smile. “Everyone’s got a story.”

“Fine. I was born. I joined the legion. I kicked the flanks of everyone who said I couldn’t and I’ll keep doing it till I’m General. Happy?” Her hooves darted out, hooked her neck and dragged her out of boxcar. “If you got enough breath to ask dumb questions, you got enough to run the course! Get going!”

Later that day, when she was alone with Ossius, she asked, “Did you know Marrow wants your job?”

He didn’t look up from his letters. “Are you asking if I knew or are you trying to get my youngest officer in trouble?” he asked back. Scotch was too sore to do more than shrug. “I have no problem with ambition. She’s competent. She keeps the recruits in line, toughens them up, and doesn’t kill them when she’s frustrated. And she doesn’t flatter me with what she thinks I want to hear.” He folded up the paper. “That said, her chances of becoming general are rather slim. She doesn’t understand what it means to be general of a legion.”

“Doesn’t it just mean you’re in charge?” That got her a sour look. “I just want to know before I die.”

“I should kill you. At least then I’d have some peace and quiet,” he said as he settled back behind his desk, and then pointed a hoof at the banner. “Do you know what that banner stands for?”

Scotch considered the weighing scales. “Um. Weighing things?”

“Justice,” he replied, folding his hooves before him. “Once, during the war, this legion was tasked with meting out discipline and justice to the army. We were lawyers. Judges. Military police. It was our duty to keep the other parts of the army in place.”

“No offense, but the wasteland isn’t really in place. It’s in pieces.”

He actually smiled at that. “We failed. When the last command was issued, we proved no better than the other legions.”

“The last command?” Scotch frowned. Was it about blinding the Eye?

Ossius reached into his desk and withdrew the strongbox. Scotch stiffened, but he didn’t withdraw the book. Instead, he extracted a folded paper, brittle and yellowed with age. He unfolded it carefully and read with a worn, practiced voice, “To all legates and commanding generals. You are to assume control of the Empire forthwith until such time as I resume command. Caesar.”

“That’s it?” Scotch frowned

“That was enough,” Ossius answered. “The Caesar died three minutes after issuing that order. Roam was consumed in an inferno megaspell that burns to this day.” He held the paper up in one hoof. “Do you know what this order did?”

Scotch thought hard, then realized. “Generals. He didn’t say which general was to be in charge!”

“Indeed.” He returned the letter to the box. “Beyond the Caesar and the legate generals in Roam, there was no clear hierarchy below the legates. Seven died with Caesar. One was killed by a megaspell on the coast. Two more were killed in Equestria in the balefire exchange. One ran off and abandoned her duty. One committed suicide. It shattered our command hierarchy. Was the 1st Imperial Infantry superior or inferior to Logistical Command? The Day of Doom ravaged us like nothing since, but still the Empire remained. However, the land was shattered, and the pieces of the military that remained saw it as our duty to carry out this order.”

“There was a Legate in Equestria. Was he…” she started to say when Ossius started laughing.

“Him? Ah yes. Very amusing. An Equestrian zebra calling himself legate and swearing to destroy the cursed city. It happens from time to time. Some fool styles themselves legate or general, but without the authority invested by the Caesar, it’s nothing but empty words. He was an entertaining distraction from time to time.” He paused. “Still, he did destroy it. Had he lived, perhaps he could have changed things.”

Scotch bristled. “My friend Blackjack destroyed it, not him.”

“If you say so,” he replied with an indifferent shrug. “The legates were the law of the Caesar. They were second only to him. When they both died, we were left to fight against each other.” He closed the box lid with a firm click. “It also brought the army in direct conflict with the tribes.”

“How so?”

“On death, or dismissal, the Caesar is elected by shamans of the tribes. However, our orders put us in command. We could not… would not… step aside and let the tribes elect a new one. We declared martial law.” He pursed his lips. “For a time, we tried to pass command around, like trading a baton. It worked, I suppose. For five years. But then it came time for the Second Reconnaissance Legion to yield to the general in charge of Strategic Balefire Command. He refused. My legion failed to arbitrate the crisis. The generals broke ranks and went to war.” He leaned back and sighed deeply. “Any hope the Empire had died on that day.”

“What happened?” Scotch asked, knowing the answer. She got a flat look in response.

“Strategic Balefire Command had balefire bombs and the means to deliver them. They delivered them. We killed as many of our own with our own weapons as ponies did with theirs. They became the Star Legion when their general declared us all traitors. Eventually they ran out of delivery devices and were crushed, yet the legion still lives in irradiated nooks and crannies.”

Scotch parsed that together. “Then the whole thing between the Blood and Iron Legion isn’t just a turf war. It’s the continuation of a two hundred year old squabble.”

“It’s far more than that,” he said, pressing his hooves together. “We were commanded.”

“Huh?”

“The Caesar commanded us to control the empire,” Ossius stated.

“But… the Caesar’s dead,” Scotch said in bafflement. The Empire is gone!”

“Yet the command still binds us, as it binds all the Legions and all their generals. We must control the Empire. We can’t not.”

“But…” Scotch swallowed. “But that means the fighting here is never going to end! Even if one legion beat all of you, they’d still fight to control all the Empire, and the zebralands are too darned big for that.”

“Yet the command still stands.” Ossius struck the desk three times, punctuating his words. “It binds me as it binds every legionnaire. Marrow doesn’t understand that. Most legionnaires don’t. They merely do as they’re told, and it happened to coincide with the last command.” He touched the box with a hoof, letting out a long sigh. “Marrow may think being a general is simply being boss. It is not. It is a curse to perpetuate a legacy of pain, misery, and failure. Our penance for the war.” Then he gave her a rare, taut, half smile. “And being in charge.”

“Is there any way to end that?” Scotch asked in a small voice.

“Pony, not everything can be fixed. Some scars last forever,” he murmured, touching his chapped, raw lips with a hoof before going on. “It would require thirteen tribes that hate each other to agree on a candidate while avoiding the legions ripping them to pieces. Only with a new Caesar, could the command be rescinded.” He rose. “Now, I’ve sent a missive to Haimon and Riptide about trading you to them. It remains to be seen what their response will be.”

“They might come and kill you all.”

“True. I’ve claimed you’re at one of our outposts. If they come to deal, we will deal. If they come to fight, we will know their intentions.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Remember, we’re the legion of idiots in the Empty. We’re too stupid for guile.” Scotch swallowed and rubbed her chest. “Fear not, pony. It will take weeks for the messages to reach their recipients. You’ll have many more days in Marrow’s company.”

“And the settlers?” Scotch pressed.

“So much concern for such a small pony” His voice carried the amusement his face didn’t. “I’m torn between liquidating them all and selling them back to Bastion.” Her surprise must have shown. “You didn’t know? Your settlers were exiled from the city, and stole considerable materials from them when they went.” He pursed his lips, drumming his hoof on the table slowly. “But returning them would be a chore. Liquidating them is much more expedient.”

“Have you thought about helping them or just letting them go?” Scotch challenged.

“Helping them? With what?” He leaned towards her. “You came from the north. Why would I let the Blood Legion get their hooves on them? Letting them go is the same result. They are fools chasing a dream of creating a home in a world that wants to kill them. The greatest help I could give them would be a painless death.” She clenched her jaw and refused to drop her eyes. He cocked his head, “Well? Do you have a solution?” Scotch stared at him, but couldn’t dredge up an answer. Her eyes fell. “As I thought.”

Scotch retreated to her bedroll, determined not to cry. It was so damnably unfair! Even when Ossius entered, locked her hoof, and climbed into bed as well, she stared out into the darkness. What was she supposed to do? Blackjack would have fought Ossius, she was sure of that. But she wasn’t Blackjack. Daddy would have snuck out, tried to go around the trouble. Maybe that would work for her and her friends, but there was no way to sneak out the settlers too, was there? And Glory… she’d know just what to do, because she was smart and could build, find, or fix a solution.

Maybe…

“Ossius… when you said you would defend the settlers… back when you first took us… did you mean it?” she whispered into the dark.

The darkness murmured back, “Go to bed, little pony. Sleep well. I might just kill you all tomorrow.”

Scotch didn’t sleep that night. ‘What would Glory do’ rattled around in her head. That pegasus, though maybe most boring mare in the Wasteland, had been the smartest of Blackjack’s friends. Always ready to fix things that were broken. What would she do if she were here, now? The thought stuck with her all through the day. And the next. And the next. Even Marrow’s catty insults couldn’t pierce her contemplation.

Then, half way through the obstacle course, it came to her. She slowed as the rest of the recruits ploughed on. Marrow looked back and trotted up to her. “Pony! What are you doing?” Scotch didn’t answer for a moment. “Pony! I asked you what you think you’re doing!”

Then Scotch looked at her and smiled. “I’m going for a walk.”

The mare narrowed her eyes and snorted. “Wait. What? What are you talking about? No you’re not. The only place you’re going is back on the course.”

“No, I’m not. I’m going for a walk.” Scotch advanced on the mare. “And you’re coming with me.”

Marrow’s eyes widened in shock. “What? No I’m not!” Her scowl returned. “I’m gonna–”

“What?” Scotch demanded. “Kill me? Fine. Do it. I’m getting tired of everyone saying they’re going to end my life. Beat me up? Fine. Do it. Hope that Ossius wants me intact.” Scotch leaned in towards her. “But if you’re not doing either, then I am going for a walk and you are coming with me. So’s Octavius.”

Uncertainty flitted across Marrow’s face at the mention of Ossius. Then she straightened and snapped, “Kneecap. Scapula. Take over the drills. I’m taking the pony for a walk.” Turning to the recruits, she added, “Whichever one of you is ‘Octavius,’ get over here. You’re coming with us.” That caused more baffled looks. When they were out of earshot, Marrow growled, “If you’re leading me into an ambush, I can promise you that the Propoli will be joining me.”

“I’m not. In fact, I’m probably going to be helping your legion. Much more than running around and ripping my lungs to pieces,” she said as they made their way around the abandoned rail yard and outbuildings and up the slope towards the mountains rising immediately behind them. The one eyed zebra seemed wary of an ambush as well, but brought up the rear.

“Octavius,” Scotch asked, “how good is this land for growing?”

“Land? Growing? Have you looked at this place?” Marrow scoffed. “Maybe you missed the giant salt pan out there?” She thrust a hoof back at the endless field of white and dust.

“I’m asking the farmer, not you,” Scotch replied, keeping her eyes on the baffled old zebra.

Octavius frowned for a moment, then set his hooves on a rock and pulled hard. It tore free, exposing brown dirt underneath. Octavius took a deep sniff, and scraped it with a hoof. “Ain’t the worst. Soil is pretty dry though. Probably gets salt blown in too. Ground is rocky and steep though. I doubt you could grow more than weeds and grass.”

Thankfully not razorgrass. Not seeing that damned green menace was a delight. “What if you could do something about the rocks and steepness?”

He pursed his lips a moment. “Need steady water. Decent water too.”

“Then let’s check out the water!” Scotch announced, and they walked over towards the stream, higher up the slope. Scotch was wheezing half way there, and had to lean on Octavius to keep from tumbling down. Marrow’s eyes never lingered on anything, always darting around, scanning the rocky slopes and the mountains above. Probably still searching for an ambush that would never come. When they reached the stream, she took a drink. Up here, it poured out of a narrow canyon in a steady flow. “What about this?” she asked, looking at Octavius.

He tasted the water too. “Not bad. Does this ever go dry?” he asked Marrow.

“I am first Lieutenant Marrow! You will address me as ma’am!” she snapped, backing away.

Octavius was silent, his eye flat before asking in a monotone, “Does this ever go dry, ma’am?”

Marrow snorted, looking from one to the other, her ears folding back, before finally answering. “Well, no. I don’t think so. It’s the only stream in the region. All the water in the badlands drains out that canyon.” She glared at Scotch. “Are we done now?”

“Nope!” she declared, and started down the slope. She was in a rush, but the alternatives were running herself to death or waiting for Ossius to kill her. The Propoli wagons were still encircled, but the zebra appeared far more on edge. Skeletons lay in heaps, their eye sockets glowing purple as they watched. She sought out Xona, and found her in her husband’s wagon. The mare saw her approach, and Scotch stopped to catch her breath before giving an exaggerated smile. “Xona! Great to see you! Wonderful day we’re having, right?”

Now she had four zebras looking at her uneasily. “What are you doing?” Marrow hissed.

“Asking questions still,” Scotch gasped as she fought to still her coughing. “Okay. Xona. Little question, if you don’t mind me asking… do you have seeds?”

“Of course,” the mare replied, furrowing her brow as she glanced at Marrow. “But they’re for growing, not eating. They’re treated in fertilizers and pesticides,” she added at once.

“Super. Can we see them?” Scotch asked.

Xona balked, her eyes going from Scotch to Marrow. The lieutenant narrowed her dark amber eyes. “Correction. Show us your seed stock, now.” Xona stiffened and frowned, but led her towards a tractor. “Ossius is going to kill you when he finds out what you’re doing.”

“He told me as much last night.”

“You think he won’t do it?” Marrow hissed.

“I think he’s a better person than you do,” Scotch answered, leaving the lieutenant blinking. Scotch swallowed hard, hoping she was right. The tractor had a sharp, acrid smell that made her nose wrinkle up. Bins lined the walls, each marked with its own glyph. Scotch turned to Octavius. “Okay. So what seeds do we have here that will grow well in that soil?”

“What?!” Xona and Marrow said simultaneously.

“You are not touching our seed stock!” Xona said at once, then glared at Marrow. “Not without some serious negotiation.”

“You want to play farmer? In a desert? Next to the Empty?” Marrow scoffed.

Scotch pointed a hoof at Xona. “Do you want to starve when your food runs out?” she asked.

“Well, of course not. I have a son,” she said at once.

Scotch swung her hoof to Marrow. “And do you want to keep eating paste for the rest of your life?”

“I–” Marrow glanced at Xona, as if confirming this was actually happening. “Not really. But–”

“Here you go. Corn,” Octavius announced from the back of the tractor. “Grows well in poor soil. Salt resistant. Gonna take a while though. Mmm… Beans are quicker. Potatoes. Radishes.” He considered others. “Tomatoes are good if you’re dealing with salt. Beets. Alfalfa.”

“They’ve got hay? Why didn’t anyone tell me they had hay?” Marrow asked and suddenly smacked her lips. “It’s been forever since I’ve had good hay.”

“But there’s nowhere to grow crops!” Xona protested. “You can’t plant crops in salt.”

“But you can terrace the hillsides,” Scotch said, feeling cutie mark certainty as she ploughed ahead. “Use the rocks to make walls a meter high. Fill in with dirt. And you can use pipes from the rail yard to transport water via gravity to the terraces.”

Xona stared at Scotch in bafflement. “I suppose that could work, but we don’t have enough hooves to move that much rock.”

“No, but there are at least a dozen Bone Legion recruits that are running in circles right now. They could do it. Make them nice and strong too, right?” She turned to Xona. “It gives you something to do.” Then she faced Marrow. “And it gives you a reason to not kill them!”

“I think I see a flaw in your plan.”

The ice in Ossius’s voice froze her to the spot. The general stood in the doorway of the trailer, with a half dozen guards flanking him. “I–” Scotch began.

“Silence. Take her back to the station,” Ossius ordered coldly. “Restrain her. Do not despoil her.” The guards moved in to lasso her.

“General, she…” Marrow started to say until Ossius’s hard eyes turned to her. The mare faltered, then stiffened. “General, the pony’s idea has merit. I know the recruits would fight better on a more nutritious diet and–”

“You are relieved of your duties, Lieutenant. Still your tongue lest you wish to be relieved of that too.” He leaned towards her. “You should have dragged her back to the course the instant she wandered off it.” His eyes turned to Scotch. “Clearly, however, I was too lenient with the prisoner. The fault ultimately lies with me.” He turned his back on them all. “Take her away!”

She was moved from the office to a meter square closet with just a sliver of light projecting out from under the rim. The walls, lined with metal, were impossible to dig through. She had a bucket for her business, and the door only opened to take it away and give her the greasy dough gobs and water. It was impossible to track the time, giving her plenty of opportunity to reflect on her screw up.

Now, she was probably dead, like the settlers dead, like her friends, simply because she had a bright idea that would save them all.

The door opened suddenly, and two zebras lunged in, bit her mane, and dragged her out. They hauled her up the stairs and into Ossius’s office, where a trio of zebras waited next to a bucket filled with coals, a metal rod protruding from it. Ossius glared back at her as she entered. “You’re early. Have a seat. This won’t take long.”

She knew them vaguely from her training. One-eyed Octavius, who bore raw whip marks. He wasn’t the only one sporting fresh welts. Marrow stood in the corner, glancing at Scotch with a mix of pain and anger. Ossius walked in front of the first, a mare named Peony. She’d helped Scotch over the obstacle wall several times. “Do you swear to obey the commands of the legion? To protect and serve zebra kind? To serve your caesar loyally until the end of your days?” There was an echo of an older time in that oath. Something from before the war.

“I do,” the mare replied.

Ossius bit down on the end of the iron rod, drawing it from the coals and shaking them loose, then moved behind her. One press to one flank, then the other, right where her glyphmark was. Scotch didn’t think much about glyphmarks. To be honest, it was hard to tell them apart from any other zebra scribbling sometimes. But when the iron pulled away from the raw and smoking hide, she winced more than Peony did. The rod was returned to the coals, and the oath repeated for the second. Another branding filling the office with the stench of burnt hair and the sickly-sweet smell of cooked meat.

When he got to Octavius, she did something she hadn’t done in a week, and let her vision shift over to the spiritual. The black ichor lay thick on the hooves of everypony in the room. Everything in the chamber seemed to ooze the tarry substance, with the exception of Octavius. He was a single, clean figure surrounded by the rest. His glyphmark now glowed amid his stripes, now that she was paying attention. It glowed like a golden, sprouting seed.

Then the oath was spoken, and the rod touched his flank.

A geyser of black ichor erupted from the mark, spreading over his haunches and body as the golden light died. Scotch nearly cried out then and there, covering her mouth in horror as the second brand extinguished the light completely. Octavius stood there with all the others, just as coated in the black slime that marked the corruption.

It wasn’t just social. Wasn’t just old armies following old commands. This… there was substance to this! But was the spiritual blight she saw a cause or an effect? And if it was a cause, what was the origin? A caesar dead for centuries? A rot in the legion itself? She turned her eye to the sole source of gold remaining in the dim chamber: the banner. Its wan illumination showed a withered zebra, blindfolded, bearing scales in his hoof. The light was faint, but it was still there.

Did that mean there was still hope for her? For this legion?

The zebras took the bucket of coals and started to leave the room, so she let her sight settle back into the normal world. Ossius moved behind his desk as everyone else left the room. He wrote something down quietly, and she yearned to talk to him, but forced herself to remain silent. Respectful.

Otherwise she was dead.

“You’ve put me in a difficult situation, Scotch Tape,” he said in a low voice. “Do you know what your little idea has caused?”

“What?” Scotch asked with a frown and sense of dread.

“Debate,” he answered. “Debate that neither I nor director Xona wished. Until your idea, the negotiations were straightforward. I’d cache the equipment, send the families back to Bastion, keep a few for the legion. It was down to deciding who would stay and who would go. Naturally, those facing the harshest penalties would remain with the legion. I’d launder the goods through Asheput and others. Status quo would return.

“Now I have legionnaires talking about ‘the project’ to make our headquarters an actual settlement. The sedition has been constant, if surreptitious. Whippings haven’t silenced it.” He turned and faced her. “And as soon at those settlers thought we’d be receptive to a settlement, half of them started planning how exactly to do it. Thanks, in large part, to your idea.” He pressed his hooves together as he glared at her. “Do you understand what this means?”

“Not eating paste?” Scotch offered.

“Our legion survives because our enemies do not think we have anything worth taking. That is the key to our survival. If this settlement takes root, it will belie that assumption. Word will spread. The Fire Legion will see converts for their war. The Blood Legion will see a breeding population to be claimed. The Golds and Storms will see a target for plunder. The fact we have something to destroy will be reason enough for the dragons to attack us. Your idea puts a huge target on the brow of every person here.” He didn’t shout. His voice remained even and steady, hooves pressed together. “I should have killed you the first day I saw you. Spirits alone know why I didn’t.”

“Because you’re not a monster,” Scotch said, glad the room was empty. “And because I don’t think you want to be the general of a monstrous legion.”

He snorted disdainfully. “Want? What I want is to live till tomorrow, and for my legion to see tomorrow. We’re doing that now. You jeopardize everything with your interference.”

“Yeah. I do,” Scotch answered truthfully. “And I want you to see tomorrow too. Not just you. The settlers. My friends. Everyone! That means things have to change. Life is change!”

“So is death,” Ossius sniffed.

“Sure.” Scotch fought the urge to roll her eyes. “But change’s not alwaysdeath. It can be for the better too.” Ossius regarded her almost pityingly and she pressed on before she got flustered. “It’s not going to be easy, or safe. If it were, it would have happened already. But you have the power, right here and now, to make that change for the better. To guide it. Shape it with Xona and her people.” She swallowed. “To be the legion as it should be, a force for law and order, not tyranny and death.”

Ossius didn’t answer. He turned and regarded the banner behind him with a pensive stare. Scotch sat there silently, praying that he wouldn’t tell her he’d already killed the settlers and her friends days ago. He inhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and opened them again. “There will have to be precautions taken. More eyes at the outposts to detect any spies or scouts. Facilities built for the legion first and foremost to protect whatever boons these settlers develop.”

“So…” she started to say and he raised a hoof sharply.

“I do not like this. I do not like taking risks with what little I have,” he announced with a glower. “Especially when those risks were instigated by another, and a pony at that!” he added sharply, then he relaxed. “However, it would be beneficial in the long run to have a larger pool to recruit from. Marrow was not mistaken about the nutrition of our meals affecting the combat effectiveness of our legionnaires. And a settlement means inevitable deaths, which means a sure supply of skeletons to animate. So I will speak with Xona to allow this… settlement. If she concurs that it is viable, then we will proceed from there.”

She couldn’t help herself. She raced up to him and threw her hooves around his neck, hugging him tightly. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she repeated. Then she kissed him.

That was likely the mistake.

His eyes popped wide as her green lips parted from his scarred ones and she immediately realized she was far closer than she’d intended him to be. She stared into his eyes and blinked, blushed and immediately climbed off his lap. “Ah… thank you…” she mumbled.

“Don’t thank me yet. You are still my prisoner, until I hear from this New Empire,” he replied, rubbing his raw lips with a hoof.

“So… back to the closet?” she asked with a touch of dread.

“Don’t tempt me,” he warned. “You’ve pushed me far, far more than I have ever allowed any person. I should have killed you when I first had the chance. Then all of this,” he gestured towards the closed window, “wouldn’t be happening. It can end in disaster in so many ways. Legionnaires abusing settlers. Settlers drawing my legionnaires to a domestic life! Tribal squabbles that inevitably pop up. You’ve invited a thousand little headaches on me and my first instinct is to kill things that give me headaches!”

“Maybe. Probably. But it’ll be better too,” she said with as much beaming optimism as she could beam, and hoping that he just sort of ignored what she’d just done.

“Ah, to be young,” he sighed wistfully. “I’ll allow you to visit your friends and the Propoli settlers. I shouldn’t be the only one with the privilege of yelling at you. I understand Director Xona has several choice words for you as well. However, you are to return here at nightfall, and your friends are still prohibited from leaving. Should you go, this settlement will end quite abruptly.”

Right. There was the Ossius she knew. “Right. I won’t. And… ah… thank you,” she said with a flush, starting for the door and halting till he dismissed her with a wave.

“So, did you sleep with him?” Precious asked as they caught up next to the pool. Ossius had been right about Xona being angry with her, and she yelled a lot more than he had. She’d outlined all the ways the train station was an utterly horrible locale for settlement and the Bone Legion was not to be trusted and how they’d been in negotiations for their release and now everyone was swept up in planning, breaking ground, and putting down roots, literally and figuratively.

“No, I did not sleep with him!” Scotch retorted, drawing a skeptical eyebrow. “Why would you even think that?”

“Blackjack,” Charity replied with a roll of her eyes.

“That and we noticed you kinda had that thing going on with Vicious,” Majina added.

“So there might have been a bet,” Skylord finished.

“You people are way too obsessed with who I sleep with,” Scotch grumbled, then looked over where Pythia was studying her map. “Everything okay?”

“Well,” Pythia said lightly, “the number of futures we’re all killed and animated as skeletons have gone down dramatically. But it’s still not clear enough to say what exactly we have to do to survive yet.”

“We were able to get the Whiskey Express working again. It’s ready to run, but while we might get away…” Majina trailed off as she looked at the settlers. “Are you sure he’ll really let them live?”

“I’ve pushed him a lot,” Scotch admitted, “but I’m pretty sure if I double crossed him, it would be ugly.” She flushed a little. “I might have kissed him too. Once. That probably wasn’t good.”

“Oooooh,” four of them said in unison.

“Oh, shut up!” Scotch grumbled, ears burning. “He’d just told me he hadn’t killed everyone. I was… grateful.”

“Knew it,” Precious said to Skylord. “Pay up.”

“He still might just kill her. I’m not paying till they’re banging or we’re out of here,” Skylord grumbled.

“It’s not going to happen. I’m pretty sure pony fillies aren’t his type,” she muttered, ears burning.

“Ponies might not be, but you’re not really much of a filly. You’ve grown like three centimeters in the last week,” Majina pointed out.

“I’ve grown too!” Precious countered.

“You’re such children,” Skylord sniffed.

“You’re just sore I’m taller than you,” Precious retorted, sticking out her tongue for good measure.

Maybe, but in spite of being the target of their teasing, it was good to be back with them. Their greatest challenge had been boredom, and staying away from the Irons.

“Well, I think that a settlement here is a great idea. If the legionnaires and the settlers don’t kill each other that is,” Charity said, and got odd looks from the rest. “What? It is.”

“I just thought you’d hate it,” Scotch admitted, glancing over at Pythia who wasn’t joining the conversation.

“Well, it’s remote, which is in its favor, but it’s got water and sun. If you can get crops to grow, they’ll do great without the razorgrass. But more importantly, it’s in between north and south, which means that they can set up a real crossing and charge coins, sell supplies, buy and trade goods. It’s a real opportunity for them.” She pointed a hoof at the salt flat. “Plus, all that? That’s money.”

“Money? Seriously? I thought it was salt.” Scotch blinked. “You mean they could sell it?”

“They did before the war. Salt’s a precious commodity, well, outside of here. Cooking. Licking. It’s in huge demand everywhere and there’s tons and tons of the stuff just waiting to be cut up,” Charity said. “But that’s only if they can feed themselves and protect what’s theirs. I get Ossius wanting to hide his wealth. I did that in Chapel. If raiders don’t think you have anything worth taking, you’re less of a target.”

“So… did I do the right thing?” Scotch asked. Everyone shared a look that she didn’t like.

“I think you changed things,” Pythia said firmly. “Right and wrong… that’s up to them. But if you hadn’t, then a month from now this place would be the same as it’s been for two hundred years. Maybe they get killed. Maybe they prosper. Either future is possible. But if you hadn’t kicked these two into thinking about making an actual settlement there, then nothing would change.” She thumped the map. “Now we just have to get you free and get out of here before something happens that gets everyone killed.”

“And get to Roam,” she nodded. “Feels like we’re never going to get there.”

“We’re actually really close to it,” Pythia said, withdrawing the atlas. “We’re here,” she said, pointing at the Great Western Empty, which dominated almost a whole page. It looked like an 8 lying on its side. “And then there’s the badlands south of here.” She flipped to the next page. “Here’s Roam,” she said, as she pointed to a spot on the map at the cluster of dozens of roads. “It’s only a thousand or so kilometers south of us. We’ve come three quarters of the way.”

“But what happens when we get there?” Skylord asked. “I heard Roam was huge.”

“It is, but I have a map,” Pythia replied, flipping to a different section of it. “I think we should go to the western part of the city. It’s where the imperial embassy to the spirits was located. If it’s intact, we might find where the Caesar’s personal shaman lived and then we can find out if the Eye of the World was blinded, how, and where.”

“And that’s still a big thing?” the griffon asked, crossing his arms skeptically.

“I think it is,” Scotch said. “All this started when we came here looking for the Eye. Riptide. The fight at Rice River. Even this. We started looking for the Eye when no one else did. I think that we should keep looking, till we know.” She gazed off to the east, where the Empty stretched like a dusty sheet towards the horizon.

“Provided we get out of here before Haimon or Riptide show up,” Precious growled.

“True. If that flying contraption shows up, all bets are off and we’re out of here,” Skylord insisted, then pointed a claw when Scotch opened her mouth, “I know you made some idiotic promise or whatever, but I didn’t promise anything. I’ll knock you out if I have to. We’re not leaving you behind again. Right?” the griffon asked, looking at the others.

“Technically we didn’t leave her the last time,” Pythia replied, lips curling into something almost as much a smile as a smirk. “But yeah. We’re not sticking around.”

“But what do we do till then?” Charity asked.

“Simple. These people are going to be setting up a settlement.” Scotch beamed at the rest. “We help however we can.”

“Ugh. I’m going to be moving rocks, aren’t I?” Precious asked.

“That or welding,” Majina said with a smile. “I’ll probably be foal sitting… but you never know. I might turn out good with a hammer!”

“I’ll make sure nothing valuable goes to waste,” Charity said as she rubbed her chin. “I wonder what other caches they’ve got hidden around here. Might be good stuff to trade.”

“The settler ponies saved us after we got out of the Empty. They helped us fix the Whiskey Express. We owe them. Just try to keep things smooth with the Bone Legion. I doubt many of them are going to be happy with this,” Scotch said, looking at the others and getting a solid nod. When the others moved back to the encampment, Scotch sat next to Pythia. “What about you? Seeing a good future yet?”

“Closer. There’s shadows where we might get out,” Pythia replied. “What is he like? Ossius?”

“Deeper than we first saw. I think in another life he’d be an actor. He’s playing a part, even if he doesn’t like it. That’s pretty impressive for someone that tells me he’s going to kill me every night,” she said with a sigh and half smile.

“He still might. Don’t forget he’s spent most of his life killing.” Pythia turned back to her map. “Old habits die hard.”

What followed over the next week was a flurry of activity. Once Ossius and Xona had worked out the finer details of what the legion would and wouldn’t do to them, the Propoli got to work, breaking out cutting torches and using the tractors to move the boxcars into new positions against each other. Ones too corroded or bent to be welded together into larger homes were gutted and cut into scrap. While some of the tracks were torn up, others were left untouched. “For future use,” Xona had said.

The legion attacked the hillside with gusto born of being promised the first dibs on the alfalfa. Precious’s prediction proved true as she was put to work ripping into the heaps of rock like a giant purple scaled mole. The legion stacked the rocks into angled walls a meter high, then filled in the backside with dirt. The first irrigation was done by bucket, but after a week a pipe ran from the canyon down to the first terrace. Meanwhile Charity was exploring the salt flat, finding the clearest salt deposits and using her magic and a chisel to carve out a half-meter cube, which she then chipped in into more manageable pieces for later use, or hopefully, sale.

Ossius watched from afar, looking out from his upstairs office with a permanently worried scowl as Marrow handled the digging detail. He didn’t have any more talks with Scotch. In fact, he didn’t seem to leave his office all night, poring over little details in reports from the outpost awaiting Haimon’s reply. Every morning a skeletal zebra trotted up to faithfully deliver messages before taking replies back out into the Empty.

She started taking meals to him, to make sure he’d eat something, even if it was just globs of that wretched paste. Really, first thing they needed to work out was a decent oven! Then, a week after the project started, she paused outside the door to his office. Her hoof froze millimeters from the knob, the end feeling as if it had been dipped in cold crude oil. She set the tray down, and shifted her eyes into the spirit plane.

The door oozed. Thick dollops of black spiritual slime crawled down the surface in a perpetual cascade. Swallowing hard, she turned her head and pressed her ear to the door. For a moment she heard nothing but the clock within, as she struggled to hold still while rancid slime dripped down her cheek.

“…kill them all…”

It wasn’t a voice like a zebra. It was the voice a chorus of zebra might have as they were disemboweled and having their guts drawn out while trying to speak in unison, and not quite achieving harmony. “…kill them. They’ll usurp your authority. Marrow will try to take the legion for herself. Xona will make them all weak. Kill them both. Kill the pony filly. She’s nothing but trouble. Give us their bones.”

Scotch swallowed hard, pulling her cheek away from the door and wiping her face with a hoof. She pulled her sight from the spiritual, and carefully pushed the door open.

Ossius crouched at his desk, his eyes locked on the open black book. As she stepped in, his eyes twitched to hers and glared without moving the rest of his body. Scotch stared at the horrid thing. “Light reading?”

“Contingencies,” he replied tersely. “What do you want?”

“I brought you food,” Scotch said as she lifted the tray.

“Take it away. I’m not hungry.” The ragged stallion waved his hoof dismissively.

Scotch carried it over and set it down on the desk. “You should eat something.”

“I said no!” His hoof upended the tray, flipping it into her face. She raised her hooves in time to shield herself from the tray, but the dough still landed in her mane.

“You know that book’s no good,” she said as she brushed his food out of her mane. She tried to ignore the whispers that teased the edge of her ears. No way she’d dare look at it again. “Put it away. Better yet, get rid of it.”

“You’d like that,” he muttered, glaring at her. “Ponies always trying to make us soft. Weak. Easy to defeat. This has been your plan all along, hasn’t it? Undermine me. Take what’s mine!” he hissed.

“Ossius. It’s a book of evil and it’s messing with you.” She walked around the desk. “Put it away. Come outside. Some sun will do you good.”

“Stop telling me what to do!” he snapped, lunging towards her. In an instant he knocked her on her back and was crushing her windpipe. “I should have done this the first time we met!”

Scotch didn’t struggle, knowing it was futile. He was both too big and too practiced in killing. She’d managed to get one good breath before he started choking her. This wasn’t him. Not entirely. She gazed up at him and touched his cheek. He jerked at the contact, as if it were electric. His pupils dilated as he stared at her.

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

Her vision began to darken as she struggled to say his name. Anything to get through to him.

Twenty. Thirty. Forty.

His hooves jerked away as if suddenly burned, and she clutched her burning throat as she coughed and gasped raggedly. He rose to his hooves, backing away. “I…” He stared at her, then at his hooves, and only then did his eyes move to the book. “Oh, you nasty bastard,” he hissed.

“Are you… you, Ossius?” Scotch croaked, rubbing her throat.

“I’m a better me at the moment.” Ossius drew himself up, his cool gaze drilling into the pages. “You listen to me. If I kill her, or them, or anyone, it is because I choose to! Not you! Not anyone! Do you hear me?”

The book lay there a moment.

“…Fool…” it spoke in the crackling chorus.

Ossius gasped as he pressed his hooves to his chest, a terribly familiar screaming filling the office. He gasped and gaped at Scotch in shock. Then crimson lines began to creep down his nostrils and out his ears. His eyes.

“Ungrateful fools, denying yourselves power. Death is all you deserve,” the horrific voice spoke as Ossius’s life was siphoned from his body.

Scotch stared in horror. If she ran to get Xarian then Ossius would be a bloody smear by the time they returned. She looked around for something, anything, she could use as a mask, but there was nothing except a glob of doughy paste.

She scooped it up and immediately smeared it over her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered. If this doesn’t work, this is a really ridiculous way to die. Then, keeping her eyes down, she shifted her sight to the spiritual.

And found herself waist-deep in black sludge. It poured out of the book in an uninterrupted torrent, but even that was nothing compared to the thing that was currently violating Ossius with entrails attached to him like lampreys, leeching the life from his body. Maybe it had once been a zebra… or several zebras. Now it was a horribly distorted thing. A thing that should not be. Eyes covered its ever-changing surface like boils caused by some long-forgotten disease. She couldn’t even bare to look at it fully without her stomach heaving.

Now she could see it. How did she plan on fighting it?

“Stop! As a shaman I order you to stop!”

It froze. Half its many eyes turned to her. Half its many mouths curled in a drooling grin.

Then seven of its limbs shot out at her. She leapt to the left, ducked, rolled to the right, and leapt over pseudo-hooves that splintered into needle sharp claws. One struck her, and the end erupted in a dozen smaller legs, that each burst forth with a dozen tiny hooks. They pinned her to the wall beneath the banner like a root ball, digging into her hide. Entrails snaked like worms towards her face, ending in gaping lamprey mouths. They struck, but hit some force an inch from her face.

Ridiculous or not, the mask of food paste kept her alive. Still, this thing was draining Ossius, and drowning him in its foul corruption. “Does pony like playing with spirits?” the monster hissed. One of the roots touched her chest and the pain inside exploded, as if Marrow had just run her ass off. Scotch tried to scream, but her throat filled and blood and black bile poured out, choking her. “Foolish pony,” it crooned. “Touched, and so fragile.”

Scotch coughed enough to clear her throat. Her chest felt like it’d impaled her. Maybe it had. No way was she going to beat this thing. Not alone.

Then her eyes turned to the tapestry above her, at the blindfolded zebra at her back. At the scales it held. It was the only source of gold in the entire room. What was it? A spirit of weighing things? A spirit of fairness?

Of course.

“Justice,” she croaked up at it. The blindfolded zebra bowed its head once. “Help!”

“Justice? There is no justice anymore!” the creature screamed from its many mouths. “Kill or be killed. Take or die! That is the only justice!”

Justice said nothing. Scotch looked at Ossius, now lying prone in the black mire, then at the golden spirit again. “I am Scotch Tape. I ask you… Justice… to judge us… and punish the wicked!”

Justice didn’t answer. Unlike the locking spirit, it didn’t seem eager to take the deal. “He is General Ossius. It is his legion’s duty to uphold the law! Judge us! If we are wicked, strike us down! It is your duty!”

The golden light of the tapestry seemed to glow brighter. “No! No no no! You have no right to judge us! None!” the mass of entrails and corruption screamed, withdrawing its root like limb and letting Scotch fall to the floor. The blindfolded zebra stepped from the banner, and where his hooves touched, the black ichor boiled away. A scale shone in one hoof, and a sword appeared in the other.

It held the scale out at her. One side glowed gold, the other black. She watched as both sides filled… the black with far more than she expected. Still, the light pushed down further than the corruption. It turned from her.

The thing lashed at it with its many legs. Incredibly, it parried with the blade while calmly lifting the scales. Almost instantly, the dark side filled and yanked hard on the scales. The golden blade whirled and flashed as it clove through the serpentine mass of too-many legs in a blur, advancing despite the blindfold.

“No! We are powerful! Our power is law! We cannot be judged!” it wailed, backing away from Ossius, creeping back towards the book. “Stop! Stop! Stopstopstopstop!” it screamed, and then the massive bulk started to compress, snapping bone and ripping flesh as it was pressed back into the pages of the tome. The sludge reversed as if a drain had been opened, flowing back into the book it had oozed from.

Justice raised its sword overhead and brought it down towards the pages. The book slammed shut like the closing of a vault door. The blade deflected off with a resounding ping, and Justice just stood there silently a minute.

Then it turned to Ossius, lying there groaning from the attack he’d suffered. Scotch immediately ran to interpose herself between them. “Wait! Please! He’s doing better! He is!”

Justice didn’t stop advancing.

“Please, give him another chance. He can do good. I know it. He could have killed me. He didn’t! He could have stopped the settlement! He didn’t!” Scotch pleaded.

But Justice would not be denied. He raised his scales.

Scotch stared as they began to fill, one side with a wan golden light and the other with black corruption, this time from Ossius’s own heart. Could a few weeks of virtue make up for his vice?

The scales rested, perfectly balanced.

Then the corrupted side dipped down.

Justice advanced once more. She threw herself over Ossius to try and shield him. “Please! Give him mercy! Don’t kill him! He’s doing better! He can keep doing better!” she wailed as loud her burning chest allowed. The spirit seemed almost... insulted... by her plea for forbearance, furrowing its brow in a stern scowl.

Then Ossius’s hoof touched her shoulder and she stared at him as he gave a weak smile. “Is that Justice? Actual Justice?”

“You see it?” Scotch asked.

“No, but you do.” He pushed her off, gently, and then rose to his hooves, swaying. “I am… Ossius. General of the Legion of Justice. Mete out your punishment. I will not hide from it.”

Justice paused before him.

Then it lifted the scales. The dark side was just a little lighter.

It plunged it’s sword into his chest all the same.

Ossius let out a scream as golden light flared out of his nose and mouth. His eyes were like two lamps. Then a glow began on his flank, and those black brands on his flank began to boil like burning sugar. All around the brands the glow intensified, and bits of the brands began to lighten, like curtains in a fresh sunbeam. Then the golden light burst forth from his flanks, shattering the brands and forming into a symbol of a pair of scales.

The ichor collected into a floating sphere and zipped away, disappearing through the wall.

Justice withdrew its sword. Without a word, it walked back to the banner and climbed back inside, resuming its posture, but wearing an almost imperceptibly small smile.

Ossius collapsed, clutching his chest with both hooves as he laid on his side. “What... what just happened?”

Scotch pointed at his flank, where the brand had disappeared, only to be replaced by a glyph. Screwing her eyes up, she thought it looked like... she glanced up at the banner and then at his mark again. “I think... I think you were censured. Your brand is gone.” She knelt beside him, helping him sit up. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m not the general any longer,” he said as he rubbed his chest. “What was happening before? Was that the book?”

“More like the thing in the book. I don’t think it liked the idea of a settlement here. Or you agreeing to it. I don’t know if it was trying to control you or kill you but...” she swallowed hard to avoid being sick. “It was bad. But Justice broke its power over you.” Scotch pointed to his glyphmark. “When that reappeared, this ball of ick formed and zoomed away through the wall.

“Then that means the Bone Legion has a new general,” he said with a groan. “Who?” Scotch asked.

“Me,” said Marrow’s voice from the doorway. The mare stepped in with a harrowed expression. Her legion brand glowed red, as if it were still being burned into her hide. “What did you do?” she demanded of Scotch. Then she paused. “What is all over your face?” Scotch hurriedly wiped off as much as she could.

“She saved my life,” Ossius replied, adding smoothly, “General.”

“No. I can’t be general. I’m just a Lieutenant!” she objected. “It should be Colonel Scapula or Captain Tibia. They both have seniority.”

“It passes to the nearest qualified officer. You were nearest, and you are qualified. And you will be general until you die,” he said as he rose to his hooves. “I wouldn’t recommend trying what the pony did. It was nearly fatal. The spirits stripped me of my rank. The Bone Legion is now in your hooves.”

“But...” General Marrow began, looking from one to the next. “What do I do? Will you re-join the legion? What will happen when the others find out I’m general?”

“Are you asking for advice or orders?” Ossius asked.

Marrow stiffened, her features going from fright to a worried scowl. “Advice.”

“Good,” Ossius replied. “You’re in command now, as if I’d died and no one else could assume it. I would suggest continuing with the pony’s plan. Let this settlement take root. Support it. Protect it. Use it to develop your own strength.” He glanced back at his glyph. “I will not rejoin the legion. It would undermine your authority to have a former general as your subordinate. If you demonstrate poise, focus, and confidence, the other officers will support you. Those that will not you can remove.” Then his eyes switched over to Scotch. “And I would suggest letting this pony go.”

“After she did... whatever she did!?” General Marrow asked, indignant.

“She saved my life, General,” Ossius repeated. “I thought to use her as a pawn. A tool. A trade. I was a fool. She is cursed, Marrow. Worse than I ever imagined a person could be. It’s been my ruin. Let her go. See to your legion. They’re your responsibility now.”

Marrow turned her back to them, chewing on her lower lip. As she watched, something tugged at her saddlebags, but when she glanced back, Ossius stood there with an indifferent look on his face. Marrow faced them again. “Fine. She’s a worthless soldier anyway. All that coughing and whining. Probably lousy bones too.” She jabbed a hoof at Scotch. “I want you and your friends out of my territory, understand?” Scotch nodded at once. Then she looked at Ossius. “What about you? You’ll stay, won’t you?”

Ossius glanced at Scotch then at Marrow. “I will if you insist, General, but I would suggest not. When Scapula, Tibia, Fracture, and the others arrive you should be on your own authority, not leaning on mine.” His smile softened. “I may stop by from time to time, with your permission, to see how you’re doing.”

“Crap. Five minutes ago I wanted to be general. Now I am, because this pony did... something.” Marrow growled at Scotch before gesturing towards the door with a jerk of her head. “Go. Get out of here. Ossius... I want you to stay. I’m going to need some things from you... before you leave.”

Ossius faced her. “Good luck on your travels, wherever they may take you.”

“Good luck to you too,” Scotch said, glancing at an impatient Marrow. “Both of you.”

And before her luck reversed, she made for the door. Marrow shouted out to the guards to let her out and she didn’t look back as she hurried to the settlement.

Already the Propoli were at work clearing out a section of the train yard. Legionnaires sweated as they wrestled stones into place on the third terrace. Octavius talked with Xona while they started planting the first. Scotch wondered what they planned on growing first. Corn? Beans? Would Marrow be as amenable to the settlers? Would the other officers respect her or would they cause more trouble? Worst of all, Scotch knew, she’d probably never know the answer. When would they ever come back this way?

Her friends were waiting at the Whiskey Express, the trailer filled with drums of water and bags and the boiler issuing steam from its pressure release valve. Xharo and Xarian stood close by, checking the tractor. They looked to her as they approached, and Precious poked Skylord’s shoulder. “She’s not dead. Pay up.”

“She killed their general! How is she not dead?” Skylord demanded, jabbing a claw at her. “Why aren’t you dead.”

“When will you learn not to bet against Pythia?” Precious retorted. “Now pay up.” Pythia didn’t look up from her map, but the filly definitely smiled at that. The griffon passed her a gold imperio, and the dragonfilly snatched it away from him. “Welcome to my court, Duke Ramundo,” she purred.

“Bets aside, I’d also like to know what happened,” Xarian asked, his face far more serious than her friends.

Majina piped up, waving her hooves over her head as she gushed, “One second she was telling the recruits to move faster, and then this black thing streaked right into her and her flank burned bright red!”

Scotch gave a greatly abbreviated accounting of the spirit corrupting Ossius, her invocation of justice, and how it had censured Ossius. Skylord regarded his own brand stoically as the others all looked baffled. When she finished, Xarian appeared vaguely ill and Xharo gaped at her as if she’d grown an additional head. “Can she do that, Dad?”

“Apparently,” he said in a low voice, glancing at her friends. “I wish you could stay for proper instruction, and I am glad you’re going. I don’t think it would be healthy for us if you remained while this curse is upon you.”

“Gee, that’s nice,” Precious snorted.

“It’s okay,” Scotch answered. “I wish I could stay, but it’ll be safer for all of you the sooner I go.”

“You need instruction. Your curse will not protect you forever, and it will protect your friends not at all,” Xarian said, looking to the south. “You are going to Roam. In the old city, there’s an enclave of shamans assisting the Flame Legion. The spirits will show you the way. Give the Shamans there my name. They might be more willing to help.” He gave a half smile. “I’d wish you good luck, Scotch Tape, but I fear the kind of luck you possess.”

“Me too,” Scotch replied. She climbed up into the trailer as Scotch got to the controls. They started up the narrow road that snaked up the canyon, leaving the vast Empty behind them.

“About time we got moving again,” Charity said, pulling out a salt crystal the size of her hoof. “Now, should I sell this bad boy in one chunk or try carving it into something even more valuable? A lamp maybe?”

Scotch moved next to Pythia. “So, you saw me coming out of this okay?”

“Actually, I saw Ossius killing you, Marrow killing you, both of them killing everyone, and a few other nastier outcomes. I was trying to be positive for once,” Pythia answered as she smiled at the map. “Not my fault Skylord’s a cynic too.”

“Traitor,” the griffon muttered as the road curved away, leaving the Empty behind them. “When did you get on team optimist?”

“When the alternative was team ‘oh crap.’” Pythia sighed and glanced at Scotch. “Speaking of ‘oh, crap’... take a look in your saddlebags.”

“My saddlebags?” Scotch blinked, then took them off and flipped them open. One held her usual assortments of healing potions, tools, and lungwort tea. The other, however, had an unexpected addition.

The black book.

Scotch stared at it silently for a moment, then muttered softly, “Oh, crap.”

Author's Notes:

Author’s notes: My editors’ writing.

“Ossius was a pretty cool guy eh turned people into skellies and doesn’t afraid of anything. Also a strong independent zebra stallion who don’t need no mare.”

Also, sorry this took so very long. I've been dealing with a lot of depression and anxiety lately and should have had it up weeks ago. Sorry about everything. But good news! I should be making it to EFNW this year, since I'm moving to that area. Hope to see folks then!