Fallout Equestria: Homelands

By Somber

Chapter 19: In the Pale Moonlight

“You know, I don’t get why they call these the badlands!” Scotch shouted as the Whiskey Express ‘pockety pocked’ its way along the gravel road winding up the hillside, spraying stones behind them. “Open skies! Fresh air!” she called out as the steam hissed out of the pumping pistons. “Makes me want to build a house right over there!” She jabbed a hoof at a massive mountain of tailing laced with conveyors next to a hole in the earth deep enough to put most of Manehattan inside. She’d lost count of how many she’d seen. Thirtieth, maybe?

“Talk less! Drive more!” Charity yelled back.

“Hold on!” Scotch shouted as they approached a switchback in the road. She wrenched the wheel hard to the left, the wheels slipping as the tractor spun almost back the way they’d been travelling. It gave her an excellent view of the bugs coming after them. They scurried after the tractor like a sentient flash flood, pouring over the hillside after the vehicle. Some were as large as a pony, their mandibles making a clicking that rivalled the noise of the steam tractor. Their oily black shells were slightly mesmerizing to observe in number, so she kept her eyes on the road. Scotch wasted no time continuing their ascent along the twisting, winding path.

“The thing I don’t get is why are the neighbors so ornery?” Scotch yelled. “I mean, we just showed up and they were doing their bug thing. You’d think that we’d done something to their nest? Something really annoying. Something like tossing a dozen grenades into their hive!”

“It was a grenade,” Skylord yelled back. “One grenade!”

“Two!” Majina corrected.

“Two! It was two grenades. One in the hive. One in the swarm coming out of the hive.”

“Yeah, you’d think they wouldn’t get so pissy!” Precious added.

“It was two and two fifths of a grenade!” Charity snapped.

“What? Where’d you get two fifths from!?” Skylord demanded.

“From the twenty percent dumbass fee!”

“Hold on!” Scotch yelled again as they reached another switchback. She set her hooves, wrenched the wheel again, and reversed direction once more. The swarm, not limited by needing to follow the gravel road, continued racing up the slope after them. They crested the hill, only to find themselves at the edge of an even larger hole. Scotch swallowed as she was suddenly tasked with navigating the winding edge next to the open pit.

“Wow. That’s a long way down,” Precious observed, leaning out over the edge. The mining equipment littering the sides appeared no larger than a hoof. At the base, the water appeared a vibrant green with swirls of yellow.

“Will you get inside!” Majina yelled, trying to pull the dragonfilly back.

Fortunately, Xharo had fixed the Whiskey Express to good as new. The Propoli hadn’t skimped anywhere on the repairs. The shocks weathered the ruts and washboard surfaces without vibrating clear off the road. Even after two weeks in the badlands, the steering remained tight as ever. Good thing, as Scotch swerved around a boulder protruding into the road.

“Maybe he wouldn’t have tossed the grenade if you hadn’t speculated they might have something valuable in the hive!” Pythia bellowed at Charity.

“What! You saw all those tractor trailers outside the nest! You can’t tell me those things ate all the loot too!”

“I told you what would happen!” Pythia yelled, waving a hoof at her.

“Yeah, since when has that ever stopped us?” Skylord shot back.

“Hold on!” Scotch shouted as the road took a sharp twist back and forth like a W, dropping sharply downhill. Rather than try to navigate the contorted track, Scotch plunged right down the middle. The weedy surface sent up a great cloud of dust as she struggled to keep the Whiskey Express at a low gear and pointed down the clearest slope. She nearly stood like a zebra on the pedals to shift her weight back as they rattled, slid, and clattered their way down. The bugs chittered in annoyance behind them… or fury… or maybe they just chittered?

Halfway down, the trailer started to skid, and she turned into the slide to pull it straight. It wasn’t happening! They were about to jack-knife, or roll! Precious leapt over the edge, hooking her claws on the rim of the trailer to act as a break, shoving her hind-legs into the scree. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” she yelled as her hide was put to the test. Majina and Skylord held tight to her forelegs to keep her from falling off the back. When the trailer straightened and they pulled back onto the gravel, the pair hauled her back in.

The bugs, either fed up with the chase or satisfied the grenade-happy interlopers were gone, broke off the chase. Or maybe they had something else to eat? Who knew with bugs? Scotch Tape didn’t stop for ten minutes, finally pulling up next to a digging machine the size of an apartment building. The dragline scoop still attached to its forked booms was big enough for the Whiskey Express and the trailer, and left plenty of room besides. She could only imagine the length of the cables the massive spools wound up.

No sooner did they stop than the banter returned, only this time, it was Majina gushing, “Did you see the way Precious kept us from flipping around?”

“Hey, now I know I could have a promising career as an anchor,” she answered with a flippant grin as she munched down on their hard tack, which was little more than the Bone Legion ‘dough’ with some salt, vegetable starch from the Propoli, and a little yeast. Wrap it around a stick and cook it over a fire, or dragon breath if you were Precious.

“So, like, didn’t you once have a horn?” Majina asked around her mouthful of tack. “I remember the first time I saw you in Chapel you had one. You even did magic with it.”

“Huh?” Precious blinked a moment, then grinned. “Oh, yeah. I used to. Then it fell off.”

“What?” Charity gasped, clutching her horn in both hooves. A bit of her half baked tack fell off and glopped up her mane. “No it didn’t! Horns don’t just fall off!”

“Well they do when a zebra cyborg thingy stomps on your head. Came right off,” she said as she took another bite. “Eh. It’s okay. I think I’m growing two new ones. See?” She said, pointing at an odd little bump over each brow. “Won’t it be cool if I can do two spells at once?”

“Yeah, great. Meanwhile, I can barely do any,” Charity muttered as she brushed dough out of her hair, blue strands falling out.

“I was wondering about that. I mean, I don’t know how magic is at all for unicorns,” Scotch said, noting that she held her stick.

“It’s dumb. Most unicorns just do magic when they’re young, or learn it if you show it to them enough. I can barely lift stuff. Forget about shooting things in a fight,” Charity said with a glower, then jabbed a hoof at them. “I’m going to charge you an imperio pity tax if you don’t wipe that look of your face,” she snapped at Majina.

“Fortunately, I am pitiless,” Skylord drawled as he ate ‘mystery meat.’ Scotch didn’t want to know the mystery. “Does that mean I don’t have to pay?”

Charity froze, her condemning hoof suspended in mid jab before him. “Technically,” Charity answered, the word pulled out of her as if with pliers. Charity then turned to Scotch. Her yellow hide now brown like leather, cheeks spit to let the grin go straight to her ears as her rotten eyes swelled like yellowed pus sacs. “What’s wrong? Do I have something on my face?” She slurred to Scotch as one eye ruptured like a cyst, milky, festering jelly dribbling down her face.

Majina, her body bloated, burst out her guts laughing. Precious, her body ripping itself into two, one pony and one dragon, joined in. Skylord’s skeletal head sniffed disdainfully as loops of steel chain cracked and splintered around his beak. Pythia, her hide coming off like old wallpaper, gazed on at Scotch in concern from beneath her bloody cloak. “What is it?” two broken halves of Precious asked in unison.

Scotch stared back at them all, forcing a smile and laugh. “Right… excuse me. Need to go pee.” She turned and darted from the fire and down the road.

When she was sure that the others were still laughing around the fire, she dug out the source from her saddlebag: the Black Book. With a heave, she tossed it as far from her as she could. “Knock that off!” she yelled at the prone square barely visible in the moonlight. “I mean it!” Then, for good measure, she marched over and stomped her hoof down on the cover repeatedly. “Stop! Messing! With! Me!” Even for a soul jar of the most evil Starkatteri sorcerers in history, the book seemed unimpressed with her attacks. “I’ll pee on you! I swear I will!”

“It’s messing with you again?” Pythia asked as she approached.

“It’s being stupid. Making me see dead stuff,” she said as she stomped the cover once again. “It. Needs. To. Stop!”

“Well step on it some more. I’m sure Ossius never thought of that,” Pythia replied softly.

Scotch sighed, sitting down. “I wish he hadn’t given it to me. I wish he’d at least asked me!”

“I know, but think of it,” Pythia said as she joined her. “You beat it. You summoned a spirit of Justice and kicked its spiritual ass. You really hurt it. That’s huge.”

“I got lucky. Really lucky,” Scotch muttered. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“I know,” Pythia said lightly. “But that was probably the first time its power over Ossius was broken. If he left it there, how long before it took him over again? Or if he left it behind, how long until it corrupted Marrow? I think he saw a chance to get rid of something evil by giving it to the one person who’d actually beaten it in a fight.”

“Feels like it’s gearing up for round two,” Scotch sighed, rubbing her temples. “Is it messing with you too?”

She shot it a look of disdain. “Every future I’m seeing is us dying. Nothing new about that, but they’re all stupid deaths, like Precious eating us alive, or our intestines bursting out of our bellies and strangling us. I’ve blocked out my sight beyond immediate events. Which is probably why we’re still lost.”

Scotch turned to look back at the campfire. “I wish we could tell them.”

“I know. I do too. But knowledge of the supernatural gives a kind of vulnerability to it. If they knew you carried around a tome of perverted evil, how long before Charity would want to sell it to the wrong person? Or Majina want to read the damned thing? The most they have to deal with are bad dreams, and the Wasteland’s given us plenty of those.”

“It makes it harder… not being able to explain why I’m freaking out,” Scotch muttered, rubbing her foreleg as her eyes turned to the book.

“Scotch, they all think you’re seeing freaky spirits. I mean let’s face it, you’re kinda weird to everyone who isn’t a freaky cursed seer.” Pythia offered her a wan smile. Scotch couldn’t bring herself to disagree. The zebra then adopted an odd, wheedling tone, “ Are you sure we can’t just dump it down a mine shaft?”

“You saw how it draws trouble. If we did, how long before one of those bug things digs it out, and then some raider gets a lucky shot and gets the book? Or whatever lives in those pools tosses it up? We need to destroy it.” Was it her, or did the book let out a growl at that? She rubbed her chest as a sudden spasm of pain ran through her. “Knock it off,” she hissed through the spear of pain twisting in her chest.

Pythia shot it a look as well. “Destroying it isn’t your responsibility. If anything, it’s mine. Once we’re in Roam, I’ll try to find a stakalagados and see if they know a way,” she said. “A Starkatteri witch-hunter might know a trick.”

“Well, that or a balefire bomb. That seemed to work for the Lightbringer. If we can’t manage that, then maybe there’s a volcano we can throw it into?”

“Volcanoes are always an option,” Pythia answered with a half smile. “Try not to let it get to you. I know that’s pretty worthless advice, but it’s all I got. Every time I look into the future, I see you becoming evil and needing to be put down.” She touched her hoof to Scotch’s shoulder. “Sorry, I don’t accept that’s all there is for you.”

“And it’s always me that turns evil, huh?” Scotch asked with a skeptical arch of her brow.

Pythia rolled her eyes. “Okay, so there’s also a bunch of futures where I use that book to get ultimate power over the entire world, but really, what would I do with the world once it’s mine? Plus, I don’t really think it can give me the power to melt the flesh of my enemies from the far side of the globe. That’s a bit much.” She touched her shoulder again. “Just remember. You beat it. Call it luck if you want, but you still won.” Her yellow eyes glanced over her shoulder. “Let me get back before they start betting on how indecent we’re being.”

“Right. Right.” Scotch’s gaze returned to the Black Book. “Go ahead.” Pythia walked back towards the others in the shadow of the behemoth dragline. When she was alone, Scotch approached the book lying in the dirt, slowly circling it. “Okay. I don’t like you. You don’t like me. I’m planning on getting rid of you as soon as I can. Maybe they’ll be easier to mess with than me. But my plan B is to put you in a sack, fill it with concrete, and dump you in a river somewhere. Maybe the ocean. Now maybe you can get out of that. Maybe. But I’m pretty sure that even an immortal soul trapped in a book would find it really, really, boring. So behave yourself.”

The book simply lay there, the stabbing pain in her lungs subsiding. Oddly, that was more ominous than it hurting her more. She sighed, scooping it up in her hooves and slipping it into her saddlebags. Her eyes turned up towards the moon, gazing at the silvery orb. Her eyes picked out one tiny, black hole across the depthless chasm of space that hadn’t been there two and a half years ago.

“I miss you,” she murmured, wondering if he was somewhere out there, looking back down at her. Then she turned towards the orange flames of her friends’ fire, walking back, guided by the pale glow far above her.

The moonlight transformed the sea into a tenebrous expanse broken by shining white crests. Looming up in the middle, like a steel stake driven into the heart of the sea, rose a massive derrick, the flat top dangling dozens of cables and pipes down towards the waves far below. As Mahealani stood on the wooden planks of the ice barge, the Sahaani captain approached her.

“So you really want to go on board the Rivet, eh?” the floofy Sahaani mare said as her crew uncovered massive blocks of clean glacier ice.

“I need passage south. No disparagement to your vessel, Captain Ilta, but it’s not meant to ply warm waters,” Mahealani answered.

“That’s okay. Neither are most Sahaani,” she said with a laugh, before sobering. “Just be careful. The Rivet’s a long way from Northport,” the fluffy captain Ilta replied. “Thanks for your assistance getting us here.” Mahealani made a noise of acknowledgement in her throat. “Your knowledge of the currents was exceptionally valuable.” Mahealani just gave a brief nod of her head. “If you need passage to a better port, we’ll be offloading for a few hours.” Mahealani sighed, wondering what was taking the skiff so long. “You’re more than welcome back on board. I mean, you shaved two weeks off our schedule!”

Sahaani… “Thank you. I will keep it in mind,” she said. As if on cue, the skiff splashed loudly into the water and she jumped in, glad to be spared any further unwanted job offers. Two burly Sahaani crewed the oars while she waited patiently for them to convey her to the Rivet. Sahaani were not sailors. They could manage icebergs handily, but the slightest hazard had sent their captain scrambling for safety.

The derrick had been some kind of seabed mining station; a Propoli abomination, no doubt. The machinery had long ago been cannibalized, and the Rivet changed owners regularly. Even House Tsunami had held it a while, but the Rivet was a nightmare to oversee. The spirit of the place was corrupted, and the sea itself would sooner or later consume the whole thing. At its base, she stepped from the skiff onto a platform that was winched slowly up to the flat top above.

The Rivet was like Nowhere, in that it was a place of hypocrisy. A skeletal alicorn submerged beneath the waves was painted five meters high on the side of one wall. Beneath it, ponies trotted by in a close herd. Someone had once endeavored to plant hanging growing beds, but they now dangled barren in the wind. Two dark-plumed griffons watched her with a mugger’s eye as she rose past them, and then a half dozen more pounced on the unwary duo in a cloud of feathers and claws. A Roamani stood at a rail, shouting out that the Caesar would live again out at the sea. Atoli zebras welded plates and patched equipment, their sparks cascading down like fallen stars. Some defunct flying contraption dangled from the cables like a fat fly caught in a web.

The half dozen security stallions working the winches latched the skiff to its berth. “Welcome to the Rusting Rivet,” a young Atoli zebra stallion said with annoying cheer as he trotted up. “Do you have an entrance gift?”

Gift. Like they wouldn’t punt her down to the water a hundred meters down if she didn’t. She reached under her oil canvas cloak and withdrew a leather bag. The scrimshaw she’d picked up in the Sahaani lands depicted a leaping dolphin. The stallion’s eyes widened at once. “Oh, yes. That will definitely be sufficient.” He paused and his eyes narrowed as he took in her face. “Wait. Are you with House Tsunami?”

“Does it matter?” she asked back. The half dozen workers now flanked the stallion.

“Just curious,” he said at once, snatching the scrimshaw before she could withdraw it. “House Abyss likes to know who’s patronizing our territory.”

Mahealani considered. So House Abyss had taken over the Rivet? Abyss wasn’t an ally, nor a rival. They specialized in salvage. Once, she might have thought robbing the sea blasphemous, but the last year had softened her views somewhat. She took the risk, pulling back her hood. “I am Mahealani Tsunami.” A mistake, given the stallion’s startled reaction. “Is there a problem?” If there was, she’d rather jump now than be captured. She might – might – float long enough for the Sahaani to pluck out her shattered body from the waves.

“My master was asking about you for a month. Most assumed the sea had swallowed you.”

“Well, I will be going to Gull’s. Your master can find me there.” They both froze as the stallion considered. Then they stepped aside. She walked past, and only when they were out of sight did she exhale. The Abalone had been a regular at the Rivet years back, offloading clams and fish for trade from the mainland. The groaning structure quivered under its own weight. Someday it would certainly tumble into the sea, but as long as she finished her business before then, it was House Abyss’s problem.

Gull’s, or more formally, Gull’s Shithouse, had once been a warehouse for the metals mined from the sea floor, the rafters and upper walls streaked with white stains from the sea birds that were always nesting in the structure. A wooden pallet hanging from the ceiling showed the Abyss’s sigil: a blue Y on black. The real master of the Rivet sat behind the bar. Like Nowhere, he who controlled the booze controlled the town. “Gull,” she greeted the ancient griffon behind the bar. Age had rendered his plumage and pelt dishwater gray, and he polished a glass with a rag only marginally cleaner than his feathers.

“Mahealani. I thought you’d drowned,” the old griffon coughed, then spat something phlegmy on the glass and proceeded to smear it with the rag. “Riptide is after you.”

“She’s not the only one,” she said as she glanced around the bar. The ceiling was crisscrossed with cables and rails that had once moved around the heavy crates. A few, their sides cut open, served as cheap rentals for people needing somewhere to flop down or a little privacy for a quick rut. In the middle sat a multitude of tables that were waited upon by a half dozen griffons, most of which were his children or grandchildren.

And like Nowhere, the bar was the beating heart of the room. It sat with its back to the open air, veiled by hundreds of dangling ropes and cables that cut off the worst of the wind while letting air through. It also allowed Gull and his family quick egress from any troubles that might find him here. Bottles, jars, plastic containers, and industrial tubs lined the wall behind him, holding most intoxicants one could desire, and if they didn’t, Gull wasn’t averse to slapping together a dozen or so substances to get a reasonable approximation.

The clientele was just as varied as the drinks available. Ponies. Griffons. Atoli of five houses, one friendly, four not. An Atori eating raw fish with her sharpened teeth. Something hunched in the corner that might have been half squid, slowly sucking one clam after another. The slurping noise was a bit too audible for the meal. Still, none where giving her too sharp a look at the moment.

“So,” Gull said as his claws worked the glass. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Information,” she replied, and he gave a chuckle. “Is the Rivet safe for me?” He didn’t answer, smearing the glass further. She sighed, fished out an imperio, and put the gold coin on the counter. “I’ll take a drink.” With that coin, she could have bought everyone in the room a drink.

He took the glass he ‘washed’ and set it on the counter, then reached under and pulled out a bottle, filling it was a yellow liquid that could have been piss for all she knew. “Best ship out. Riptide has people here for you. And there’s a team of griffons here that have been asking for you by name.” He lowered his voice. “Word is your head’s worth fifty imperios.”

She paused drinking the fluid and nailed him with a questioning glance. He wheezed a chuckle. “Please. Your husband would have me for lunch if I collected on your head.” She pursed her lips and set the glass back down. He laughed, plucked it up, and downed it in a gulp. “So why are you in the Rivet?”

“I need passage south,” she replied.

“South as in Rice River?” he queried. “Not a pleasant stop anymore.”

“South as in south of the Zanzebra Strait,” she replied. He clacked his beak and didn’t answer, so she looked past his shoulder out at sea. “The Sahaani who brought me here can’t handle southern waters.”

“Ah,” he said, turning to look at the Sahaani ice scow, “Ah, yes. Them and their glorified icebergs.” He leaned back behind the bar and let out a long, low whistle. “Well, that’s a long way, Mahealani. A long way even by Atoli standards. What business could you possibly have south of the Zanzebra? Bastion?”

“No,” she said, keeping her voice low. Gull was a greedy bastard, but he was also a vital tool. No one kept better track of who really came and went in the Rivet. “Port Nightmare.” It had been a challenge to narrow down which base Nemo had talked about, but there weren’t many bases that drove zebras and robots insane.

He fell silent, staring at her for nearly a minute. “Nobody has business there, Mahealani. If you want to commit suicide, at least let me make fifty imperios.”

“I’m not committing suicide. I need to go to Port Nightmare. There’s something in the naval base there I need to find.” She pulled out the tiny metal key Nemo had on him. A room number was stamped on the side: 317-B. Gull peered at it a moment before she tucked it away again. “I need a ship to take me there,” she said. There was no doubt that Gull would sell this information to Riptide, but a tiny, spiteful part of Mahealani wanted her wife-sister to know that she was following in her wake.

“You’re never going to find an Atoli who’d do it,” he said as he clacked a claw on the bartop. “Not for a thousand imperios. The Blues would just sell you to Riptide. Can’t think of a griffon crew neither that’d be bothered, unless you actually have a thousand imperios.” He paused. “You don’t, do you?”

Mahealani smiled despite her annoyance. “Do I look like I do?”

He didn’t answer at once. Gull had good eyes, and she’d normally have gotten a laugh. Now he gazed at her as a stranger. “Honestly, you’ve changed. I mean, you were always tough but now…” he shook his head. “Can your daughters help you? Or your husband?”

“Ahulani and Lalahawa would help me in an instant if I asked, but I’ll be drowned before I ask them to accompany me to Port Nightmare,” she answered. “Tsunami…” she started to say, then stopped. If she involved him, then the Commodore would be dragged into it. That sat poorly with her. “I don’t want him involved.” She glanced over her shoulder at the room. “I’ll find someone.”

But every inquiry was declined, rebuffed, or laughed at. Even getting close to the naval base, even getting dropped off nearby, was soundly rejected by all. No one went near there. Monsters and pirates were one thing, but no one wanted to chance one’s grip on reality.

An hour later and her window was growing short. It wouldn’t be long until the Sahaani finished unloading their ice and went back north. If she missed them, she’d be trapped here till Riptide or Abyss came for her. She really didn’t like that thought. At least if she left with them, there was a chance of walking, at least down along the coast to Rice River.

She didn’t blame them for denying her. There were plenty of cursed ports in Zebrinica, and some were cursed long before ponies came along. Port Nightmare was one such place. Some ancient wickedness had been buried in its very bones. Of course, that hadn’t stopped the Empire from making a base there. The ancient harbor was just too strategic a location. Before the day of doom, it was a cursed posting, marked with insomnia and terrible dreams.

Now, it ate people’s minds alive.

“Well, you’re not going to find anyone here willing to sail south of the strait, much less to Port Nightma–” Gull started to state.

“I’ll do it,” slurred a voice behind her.

Mahealani turned to a table of four ponies in various states of inebriation. They didn’t appear as anything special. Still, the turquoise unicorn with the filthy blue and gray mane said most of the right words, “I’ll go to Port Nightymare.”

“You have a bottle stuck on your horn,” Mahealani observed, quite at a loss for how else to take this information.

“I imbibe rum through it,” the unicorn slurred proudly. “A far more efficient means of ingestion as the alcohol passes directly to my brain.

“That’s grog,” one of the hornless, wingless ponies pointed out. “And you don’t drink through it.”

“I challenge you to prove I don’t.”

“You’re drunk, Thrush,” another observed.

“That’s yer drunk, Captain’.” the unicorn pointed out. “And since when has intoxication ever disqualified me of that position?” she asked in a huff.

“You were disqualified as captain when you lost your ship,” the first pony pointed out.

“Technicality,” the ‘captain’ slurred, with a wave of her hoof.

“I’m leaving,” Mahealani stated, turning towards the exit.

Something seized her rear boot, and she looked back at the ‘captain’ clutching it tightly. “Please, don’t go!” Mahealani kicked her leg repeatedly, but somehow the pony stayed glued to it, despite flailing about like a limp turquoise flag.

Mahealani tugged her foot free of her boot, and kicked the pony off to land in a heap behind her. She whirled on her, growling, “I need a ship. You don’t have a ship. You are wasting my time.”

“I can get a ship! My ship! It’s such a sweet little ship. Take you from here to anywhere in the blink of an eye! Even Port Nightmare,” Thrush gushed, sweeping her hoof before her, the brown bottle still on her horn.

“I don’t have time for a wild goose chase,” Mahealani said, yanking her boot from the pony’s grasp and turning away. She got all of two steps before her other hind leg was grabbed. She glared back at the limp pony dragging along behind her like a prison ball. “What is wrong with you? Are you a foal!?” she asked, exasperated, trying to shake the idiotic pony off her hind leg. Gull had rules against killing, and from how the old griffon cackled, he wasn’t going to lift them anytime soon for her benefit. “Get off!” she shouted, bapping her with her free boot and trying to shake her off. “I’ve got an hour to find passage somewhere or to get back to the ice scow I arrived on.”

“Ow! Well that’s good– Ow!– because it’s not wild gooses– Ow!– we’re after, is it? It’s a ship! Ow! A fine ship! –Ow!– The Seahorse.” Mahealani paused her boot battery as she worked to shake herself free. “It’ll get you there it a quarter the time of anything with canvas!” Thrush boasted, glued to Mahealani’s hind leg. “And where we need to go is not far for your ice inclined compatriots!”

Annoyance vied with the urge to break the grasping forelegs and the need for transportation. Still, of the entire room, this was the only person who had agreed to help. Not that she was inclined to trust ponies all that much. “Where is this hypothetical ship?” Mahealani countered, taking a moment to catch her breath. She’d give her stripes for a good pry bar.

“Well, it’s hypothetically in the hypothetical possession of a hypothetical pirate who hypothetically cheats at cards,” she slurred rapidly.

“Which pirate?” Maybe she could get the ship for herself.

“Ice… Ice… Ice Cream? Eyes beam? Ayes keen?”

Mahealani filled in the blank herself. “Eye Scream? Atori witch doctor?”

“That’s the one! Eye Scream. Wonderful chap. Has a delightful singing voice.”

“He rips the eyes out of people’s heads,” Mahealani added. “While they’re still alive.”

“Only professionally,” Thrush countered with a sniff.

“How on the seas would a pony play cards with a south seas witch doctor in the northern ocean?” Mahealani murmured, half to herself and half to the mare. “Not why. How is it even possible?”

“I’ve often wondered that myself. And if I were to hypothesize a guess, I would say it’s because someone out there had a sick sense of humor.” She sighed. “Good old Eye Scream and I were playing a bit of cards and I had a set that should have sealed the deal, but then he went and used his zebra cheating witch doctoryness to win.”

“You were cheating too, Captain.”

“Hypothetically,” Thrush repeated with a wave of her hoof, giving Mahealani a chance to yank her limb free. “Please. Just get me back to my ship, and I’ll take you wherever you wish on the seas. Free of charge! We’ve been marooned on this rust bucket that we’re practically selling ourselves just to keep our heads above water.” Then she sat up, lips pursed a moment, and said, “Though I must admit that I’ve had a rather disappointing lack of offers for the prices I’ve requested.”

“Free isn’t a price, Thrush,” one of the other pony stallions chimed in. “Would you sleep with you?”

Thrush sat there a moment, cocking her head. “Point,” she conceded, pursed her lips a moment and then added, “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

No help was better than help from a madmare. “Well, good luck with that, but I’m looking for a real captain with a ship, not a pretend one without–” she cut off an odor caught her nose.

Garlic.

She immediately looked up and spotted the glowing green eyehole peering down at her through a gap in the roof. With a buzz of wings, the eye disappeared.

“We need to go. Now!” Mahealani shouted as she turned towards the exit. The sight of the dozen Abyss zebra gave her pause. Six watched the exit while six more advanced. Everyone but the four ponies was getting out of the way.

“Master Abyss would like you to come with us peacefully. Don’t want to damage the goods for Riptide,” the young stallion from the lift declared. “Don’t worry. We’ll hold you in our most comfortable brig till she arrives.”

Then she wasn’t here yet. “You’re hired. Keep them off me for five seconds.”

Thrush heaved herself to her feet, bottle still perched perfectly atop her horn. “Alright! You heard her. Er… um… Onesy! Twosy! Threesy! Get ‘em!” she said to the three other ponies.

“That’s not our names!” the three shouted in unison, but then the Atoli were upon them. And then they were upon the Atoli–kicking over tables, flinging chairs and otherwise stomping the zebra. While Mahealani would have liked to believe that any Atoli was a match for a wingless, hornless pony, she had to concede that in this instance she was glad the three were keeping the Abyss at bay.

Mahealani rushed behind the bar where Gull cowered. “Gull, I need the back door.”

“Oh, don’t ask me that. The Abyss are watching!” the griffon cawed.

“Gull! I persuaded Tsunami not to evict you when we captained the Rivet. You owe me,” she hissed.

The griffon sighed and nodded behind the bar where dozens of cables dangled into the sea. “Pull the pin on the third from the left. Take the sixth from the right. The red one. Ownership takes no responsibility if the damn thing breaks.”

“Thanks, Gull. If we ever kick the Abyss out of here, Tsunami will make you manager of this place.”

“Manager? Don’t do me favors, Mahealani. Just pay me enough to retire off this scow!” He reached over, snatched a bottle off the shelf, and guzzled the contents. “You know the rules about the back door.”

She hit him as hard as she could. His head rolled and he went limp. If he wasn’t knocked out, he’d perfected acting like it. “So is there a plan?” Thrush asked in her ear.

“Ah! Why aren’t you fighting?” Mahealani asked. “And take that stupid bottle off your head.”

“Fight? Me?” She pressed a hoof to her chest. “I’m management for a reason!”

“Why do we sail with her?” Onesy asked Threesy as he kicked a chair into the face of a Atoli.

“Beats raiding,” Threesy replied as she stomped on another zebra’s head. The androgynous Twosy simply grunted in agreement as they smashed a bottle into the face of one of the Abyss.

Mahealani climbed up on the bar, scooping a bunch of canvas rags up in her arms. “So, what are we doing?” Thrush queried. “I ask because contrary to some zebra’s belief, not all of us can fly.” She tapped the hoof thick cables. “And none of these go more than halfway down.”

Mahealani reached up to a pin on the third to left, hooked her hoof, and gave a hard tug. The pin stuck for a moment, but then a glow surrounded it and it slid free. Immediately, the end of the cable broke free, but instead of falling down into the sea, the cable swung down, the other end still attached above the bar. Mahealani slapped the canvas around the cable. “Hug that or lose your hide. Go too fast and die.”

“You’re not that much of a conversationalist, are you?” Thrush said, grabbing the cloth wrapped cable. Then she hugged it tight and started to slide down as it swung like a pendulum over the waves.

Mahealani glowered at her departure, but merely wrapped a second cloth. “Threesy! We’re going!”

“Gone!” the mare replied, turning and sprinted for the cable. She grabbed the canvas in an embrace and started her slide.

“Twosy!” she yelled.

“That means you!” Onesy, the largest and brawniest said, flinging a fusillade of bottles and furniture at the others. The Abyss were bringing up guns, but they weren’t firing just yet. Mahealani bet that Riptide wanted her alive, which meant the others had to go first. Twosy ran to the cable, hugged it tight, and dropped as well.

“Onesy!” Mahealani yelled.

“That’s not my name!” he roared, running behind the bar. Then, with a colossal heave of muscle, kicked the entire bar top into the face of the Abyss. He grabbed the cloth and dropped. Mahealani snatched the rest of the rags and hugged the cable for dear life as she dropped.

The key to sliding down a cable was to go fast, but not too fast. Good thing it appeared as if all of Thrush’s crew knew this golden rule. However, there was no sign of the captain, so Mahealani guessed that she’d plummeted to a cold and certain death. From even fifty meters, the sea would shatter a body, and they were twice that! The other cables dangling from the side of the Rivet snapped and swayed around them. There was a scream from above as an Abyss Atoli tumbled down, his hooves bloody. Thankfully the cable’s sway kept him from smashing into her on the way down. A second fell a few moments later, their trailing scream cut short by the waves.

The canvas was hot against her body as she continued the descent, when the buzzing of wings filled her ears. Hooves ending in metal hooked claws latched on to her coat and started to thrash. She struggled to keep her grip on the cable. Either the flyer would drop her, or it would carry her back up to the Abyss.

“Oy,” came a shout from the swinging cables. The turquoise unicorn swung into view, the end of one cable looped around her hind leg, forelegs crossed over her chest, and that bottle still wedged to the end of her horn. “I know what you’re thinking,” she started to say, then pressed her lips together. “Strike that. You’re a bug. I can’t even begin to think of what you’re thinking. But if I had to guess it’s–” Her horn abruptly flashed and the bottle shot off like a rocket, leaving an exhaust of vaporized rum behind it and smashing into the wide glowing green goggle lens, which shattered under the impact. “Oh fuck, my eyes!”

Unfortunately, the flyer went wild, its claws still entangled with Mahealani’s coat. Noxious green gas oozed out of the broken goggles, and wide, white eyes lacerated with glass oozed a milky substance. Mahealani found herself airborne, but the panicked and half-blind flyer had no idea where it was going, smacking both of them into the dangling cables. More than one threatened to knock them into the sea below. The flyer could kill her just by dropping her right now.

Then the bug lurched, its buzzing becoming labored. Mahealani looked up at the sight of the unicorn riding the flyer. “Down buggo! Down! Left! Your other left!” the ‘captain’ cried as she steered the flyer clear of the cables and towards the Sahaani ice scow. The three ponies slid down the swaying cable with practiced care. “Oy! Onesy! Twosy! Threesy! Get a move on!” she hollered at them as she looped the faltering flyer around the swaying metal.

“That’s not our naaaaaaamshiiiiiiii–!” one bellowed, trying to shake a hoof at the pair and thus losing his grip and falling into the cold seas below. Luckily, it was a mere ten meters at that point, and he appeared to enter the water correctly, landing hind end first, rear hooves locked together. The other pair leapt off as well as Onesy’s head broke the surface and bellowed up with surprising volume, “Dammit, Captain!”

“Swim, Onesy! Swim!” she exhorted before crashing the exhausted flyer on the deck of the Sahaani ice scow. The astonished crew stared at the trio, as if not quite sure what to do. Thrush, for her part, patted the flyer’s head. “That’ll do, Buggo. That’ll do.” Then she pointed a hoof at the zebras. “Oy! Healing potion for my insectile friend here, yeah! Put it on her tab. She’s the one in charge,” Thrush said, jabbing a hoof at Mahealani, who was trying to get herself free from the flyer’s hooked forelegs. “Oh. And get my crewponies out of the drink before they’re ice cubes,” she said as she trotted around. “Where’s the alcohol! I need rum!”

The Sahaani stared at the twitching flyer, the ponies swimming for their lives, and the unicorn calling for rum. Then Captain Ilta twisted her lips in a strained smile. “So… productive trip?”

“Get those three and get out of here. I suspect the Abyss aren’t going to respect your ship’s sovereignty.” They were starting to launch longboats and were shooting wildly from the top of the Rivet.

“Oh. Yes. Well, fortunately we’ve gotten paid.” She snapped to the crew. “Longboats. I want those ponies out of the water in five minutes or less. Then get to the oars and sails!” As the crew scrambled into action, she turned to a cloaked shaman. “Marja? Do break out our finest spirit bribes for Boreas, please,” she said, turning to a mare in a white whalebone mask.

“Offerings, Captain. They’re called offerings, not bribes.” Then she reached into a fur-trimmed coat and pulled out a vial of clear water. She spoke in a whispery voice, then slowly poured the water out into the sea. Instantly, the air turned cold and a hard wind began to blow. Clouds immediately started to form to the north.

“That was quite a bribe,” Mahealani observed at the thick, rolling clouds.

“It was water from the snow of the highest peak in the world, taken more than three centuries ago. Yes. It was quite a bribe.” The shaman walked towards the cabins in the center of the scow.

“Are you coming back with us?” Ilta asked Mahealani as the crew went into action.

“No,” she muttered, looking in the direction of a mare hollering for rum. “I’m actually going to help that idiot get her ship back.” She stared up at the silver disk of the moon peering through the thickening clouds. “Seas help me…”

“I hate being outside,” Vicious growled as her lavender eyes scanned the razorgrass waving softly in the breeze like the ocean. Even with three swords, four knives, an assault rifle, and two magnums she felt vulnerable. In the city, she could predict an attack. Out here, any Blood Legion moron with a scope could take her head off with a lucky shot. Worse, the glow of her unicorn magic made her all the more conspicuous a target.

“I hate the petulant whining of others. Vega hates being ignorant. We all have our burdens to bear,” Tchernobog answered in his deep rolling voice as they ascended the low bluff just north of the bridges that spanned Rice River. Even this far upstream, far south of the city, it took no less than three cantilever arches to cross the width of the mighty torrent. Right below them were the dozen stone arches of the Old Road. “What can you see?”

Vicious sighed, levitated a telescope, and peered through the eyepiece to the south. She pursed her lips together and whispered softly, “Shit.”

Which was exactly what Irontown was deep in.

It’d once been a military factory like Carnico, built up on a bluff where the Rice River poured down in a thundering cataract, cozied up to the mountains that surrounded it on three sides. The hydroelectric plant still churned away, allowing a dozen spotlights to sweep back and forth across the plain beneath the cliff. The factory was walled in on all sides, with steaming smokestacks raised into the sky. Massive naval guns atop round towers intended to fend off Equestrian armies and Raptors now pointed impotently out, unable to drop their fire sufficiently to hit the enemy at their doorstep. Every now and then a smaller cannon atop the wall boomed, and fire erupted in the ground below.

A ground that was positively teeming with Blood Legion. There’d once been a trading post at the base of that cliff. Now there was a network of trenches and pits occupied by thousands of Blood Legion. Knowing that the Legion had these kinds of numbers was one thing. Actually seeing it was quite another. Her eyes scanned the flanks of the factory, where the rail lines ran out to link the city to the rest of Zebrinica.

“Elaborate, please,” Tchernobog muttered.

“It looks like the Bloods set off a landslide to cut off the Irons’ rail. They can’t bring out their rail artillery, and they’re too close for the big cannons to hit them.” She scanned the razorgrass to the east and saw the dozens, if not hundreds of craters recently gouged out of the plain to the west. How many had been blasted to pieces just getting there?

“And half their forces are tied up guarding Carnico from the Blood Legion in Rice River. Ingenious,” Tchernobog said. “What is the disposition of the Blood Legion?”

She focused on the trenches, where a zigzagging network stretched in an arc spanning from one edge of the bluff to the other. “They’re… digging in. I’m seeing a few machine gun nests, but…” she spotted one and focused the telescope. The zebras were furiously disassembling the gun, and within a minute were moving to another section of the trench. “They’re moving their guns around.” A minute later, the place where the gun had been firing erupted in a geyser of earth. “Shit. They’re anticipating the shots.”

“Or they have a very talented seer examining the future,” Tchernobog said as he stood stoically next to her. “The Blood Legion are not throwing themselves at the enemy?”

“For once, no,” she said, scanning her telescope. Where the mountain curved and provided cover the Blood legion had set up their camps. “It’s freaky.”

“It is unsettling, and it’s what Vega feared. The Blood Legion finally got a commander that has instilled some discipline in the Bloods. Rice River suggested it. This confirms it,” Tchernobog muttered, and then turned and started back down the backside of the hill. She followed, collapsing the floating telescope and packing it back in its case.

“What does it mean?” she asked as she glanced at him.

“We are in greater trouble than I feared. If Irontown falls, the Irons in Rice River will be permanently cut off from supply. All the Irons’ mines and munition depots are in those mountains. If Adolpha comes up here with her rail guns, they may break the siege, but Haimon will certainly try to take the city in her absence. We have no idea where the Riptide is. It could be lurking off shore, waiting for the opportunity to return.”

“Shit,” she repeated, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the battle. “And the Exchange?”

“Sanguinus has no need of a black market,” he said, the razorgrass parting before him like a sea. Some zebra spiritual garbage, no doubt. She had to endure the countless tears and tugs to her barding’s leg protection as she followed in his wake. “We will likely have to evacuate and leave the north to its fate.”

“You mean the city, right?” she said, then balked as he glanced behind at her soberly. “You really think the whole north of Zebrinica’s going to fall?

“With the Irons gone and Carnico under Sanguinus’s control, there’s none to stop him. He’ll have the materials needed to field an army the likes of which has not been seen for two hundred years,” he muttered as they approached the river and the small boat that had carried them here, tied up under the Old Road’s stony arch. “If I was Bastion, I’d be worried.”

That was when she tripped on the body.

The razorgrass had utterly concealed it from the moonlight, but as soon as she put her foot down, the body burst like a pustule and she went slipping and falling atop it. Rankness poured into her nose as ribs stabbed at her while the liquid slime covered her face. She pushed herself off it and nearly went for a roll in the razorgrass. A few stray strands sliced her ears before she got control of herself. “Shit!” she swore, coughed, and wiped her face.

Tchernobog just stood there, looking at her, then at the body at his hooves. “Ha ha,” she muttered.

But he didn’t laugh, or even smile. Nothing new there. “Look at it, Vicious. What killed him?”

Vicious rose. “Uh, let me guess. Not me?” she said with a half smile, then examined the body. With the grass pulled back, she could take a better look in the moonlight. Zebra stallion, about a month dead, maybe less. Bloated, but with little insect activity. Odd, that. But as she stared, her eyes took in the limbs, the ribs, the skull. All appeared warped, as if turned to wax and then smooshed in various ways before rehardening. “That’s not right.”

“This was concealed,” he murmured.

“Well, yeah. The grass–” she started to say when he shook his head.

“No. It was concealed from me.” He touched his chest. “I can sense no spirits here. Only by straining my senses can I detect the regurgitated spiritual corruption covering this corpse. It is like bile coating everything around us. I walked right past this body without a thought. But you, with your dull pony spirit, tripped right over it,” he rumbled.

“What’s the big deal?” she asked, wiping the foulness and trying not to snap at ‘dull pony spirit.’ “It’s only one body.”

“Only one?” he echoed, his voice distant. He closed his eyes. “Vicious, I am going to do something. When I do, we may be attacked. Be ready.”

“By what?” she asked, immediately levitating three swords around her.

“I do not know, but it will be bad,” he stated, then he closed his eyes. “Dhruva,” he intoned, raising his eyes to the skies above and looking to the north. “Steadfast and faithful. Guide my sight. Reveal to me what is hidden.” One star at the end of a ladle-like constellation flared once, and he furrowed his brows. “I don’t understand.” Another flicker from the star. “You cannot? You?” Another flash.

“I would pay for someone to translate this zebra crap into something that makes sense,” she muttered.

“I see. I cannot, but she can,” he said, looking at Vicious. “It seems your dull pony senses are exactly what is called for.” His eyes returned to the star. “I accept,” he stated. “Show her.”

A blast of wind slammed down upon them, not from any direction but as if from the stars above. The razorgrass snapped in the sudden gale that drove Vicious to her knees. As the wind flowed away from them, it caught the strands of razorgrass and laid them flat against the earth, braiding and clumping them together. When the gust passed, the shoulder-high grass lay flat in a perfect circle for nearly a hundred meters in every direction.

“What do you see?” Tchernobog asked, quiet even for him.

Bodies. Lots of bodies. A hundred, or perhaps more. With the smell of razorgrass blown away, the reek of decomposition immediately took its place. She stared at legs twisted like noodles, ribs that looked as if they’d burst while still alive, and mouths distended in horrified screams. Even lacking eyes, the sockets seemed stretched in horror. “What the hell happened here?” she asked, then turned to see Tchernobog still staring at the star. “What’s happening to you?”

“I will be fine. I am just cursed with vertigo at the moment. Examine the bodies. Who were they? What killed them?” he asked in a terse voice. “Quickly. Something will have heard that.”

Vicious muttered about frigging shamans and picked through the closest half dozen. “Okay. Finding gear here. Pretty wasted though. Not damaged so much as… rotten.” She levitated a piece of barding only to watch the leather disintegrate under its own weight. “Guns are all corroded. Blades too,” she said as she walked around him. He turned away from the star, and immediately staggered and returned his eyes to it, swaying. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I will be fine. This is more important. Can you tell anything else?”

“They’re all facing the same way, towards Irontown, upstream,” she noted. “Those that aren’t twisted like a pretzel anyway.”

“Then we will go downstream,” he said and started to walk unsteadily along, keeping his eyes on the star. As they moved, the razorgrass behind them sprang back up almost immediately, hiding the bodies. A wall of air brushed the weedy growth aside. Twice it seemed like Tchernobog would step on a deformed limb, only for him stagger at the last moment and avoid it. Whenever he lowered his eyes, he nearly fell over till he returned his gaze to the star.

Soon they were at the Old Road. The bridge across Rice River seemed like a narrow ribbon capable of admitting only one zebra at a time. The much larger expressway had tumbled into the water long ago. Beneath the ruins of the concrete expressway, a ferry rested, big enough to haul tractors from one side of the flow to the others along two cables the Irons stretched over the water. A dozen or so Blood Legion were on the middle of the wide river, manually pulling across a tractor. The Irons must have scrapped the motor when they’d lost the ferry.

As they approached, four Bloods emerged from the motor house on the east side of the river. “Hey? Who–”

Three swords and a shotgun pointed at the quartet. “Go back inside. We’re just checking some stuff and then we’ll leave your war.”

The four exchanged looks, glanced at the Starkatteri, and proved they were officer material. All four went back inside without a second comment. Tchernobog kept his eyes on the star, the wind flattening the razorgrass for ten meters around him. “What do you see?”

More bodies. Heaps of them. How had any zebra missed this? The smell alone… then she blinked. How had she missed it? They’d walked past all of this going up the hill! “Lots of bodies. Twisted like the others. Tcher… how come I’m seeing this now?”

“Because you’re looking for it, and your mind is less susceptible to the effects of spirits. This is…” he trailed off, his eyes locked on the star to the north. “Dhruva is helping. It seeks to guide us. This level of concealment is… terrifying. I know nothing that could kill so many and utterly conceal their passage.” Keeping his eye on the star, he gestured at the carnage arrayed around the end of the Old Road bridge. “Now look.”

“There’s bullet casings here. Lots of bullets,” she murmured. “I noticed them when we went up, but didn’t think anything of them.” He nodded, his eyes ever on the star. “Let’s see. Most guns eject to the right. That means they were firing at something across the bridge.”

Now Tchernobog shuffled sideways, his gaze glued upwards. When they got to the far side, scrubby trees and brush broke up the expanse of grass, and it was pushed aside as well as they approached.

“There’s wagons here.” She walked to where one lay collapsed in a heap. “It all looks super old,” she muttered, pressing her hoof against the corroded paneling, and it immediately snapped under the pressure. The whole panel disintegrated into chunks of rust in the grass. “Shit. It just fell apart.”

“Someone summoned a powerful spirit of entropy here. Very powerful. More powerful than anything I could muster, and I deal in entropy,” he said softly.

“Another Starkatteri?”

“Perhaps, but if one of my tribe had that power, all would know of them,” he muttered, turned his head, and staggered again. He retched and vomited, then gasped and locked his eyes on the star, grunting in annoyance. “Keep looking!”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I will endure,” he grumbled.

“Why would there be bodies at all?” she asked as she picked through the next corpse. “Why wouldn’t they be bones or powder like the wagons?”

“Because unlike the vehicles, they still had living souls when they were slain. Those souls resist annihilation, even if they can’t prevent death. They linger, lost and confused, unable to find their way. As they fade, so too would the remains.” He paused and took a slow breath. “I suppose if you found a tool with an awakened spirit, it might linger as well, but mundane material would simply revert back to the earth.”

“They were Blood Legion, I think,” she said, peering at an insignia of a little pine tree. “And Green Legion too.” She frowned. “Who attacks Greens? Everyone needs them. Only an idiot attacks them.”

“This was not an idiot. This was something terrible,” the Starkatteri rumbled.

“Shouldn’t we go back and report to Vega what we saw?”

“This is more important than him,” Tchernobog said evenly. “Keep looking. Your dull pony senses are our only asset. I cannot see these things.”

More important than Vega? She didn’t know such a thing was even possible. “But they’re right there,” she pointed out, baffled that the spooky shaman, for once, seemed utterly incapable of seeing what was right in front of him.

“Of course they’re right there!” he suddenly snapped. “Do you not understand? Something was done to them to make them imperceptible to me! I am a shaman. I am supposed to feel that which is hidden. This is diametrically opposed to my very nature. To my tribe! Something that can do this should not be! Now look!” He drew a ragged breath. “You are a pony. Your senses are fixed on the material. The immediate. The mundane. Only one pony I’ve ever known had any sort of spiritual awareness, and you are not she. Now look! Use your killer instinct. What did this?”

Vicious opened her mouth, then closed it. Scotch was a sore point for her, but now wasn’t the time. Vicious examined the carnage. These bodies faced in a crescent. Faced one wagon. She walked up to the withered frame and peeked inside. Not much left. What she guessed was a bed. A few refrigerators. Whatever did this had come out here. The Greens had fought it. Then they’d run across the bridge to the Bloods. Then the Bloods had run. Something had casually killed some of the best armed and most numerous legions in the Wasteland.

Suddenly, she wasn’t so keen to find out what it was.

Then her eyes caught it. A line of rot cutting right through the trees and bushes. Not far. Ten meters or so at the furthest before the sharp bank dropping down to the river below. She followed it slowly, cautiously, with Tchernobog shuffling after her. Just before the water’s edge lay an outcropping of stone, some old knob of the world exposed by numerous floods and polished smooth by their passing. There, at the very end of the trail, was the last thing she ever expected to see.

Hoof prints. Two of them, and only two, pressed into the stone as if it were clay. She lowered her glowing horn, staring at the tiny cracks that radiated out from the edges. These weren’t giant prints of some horrible horse beast. They were small. Petite.

A horrible curiosity seized her, and she stretched out her hoof and pressed it to one mark. It fit almost perfectly.

“A mare did this,” she murmured.

Suddenly her whole body froze, her leg locked to the print like a key in a lock. Her heart hammered in her ears as her body shook, as if by one massive cramp. Her throat closed, choking noises emerging from her. Tchernobog was making some sort of comment. Maybe asking a question, but she couldn’t hear it as she stared down at that print.

“My, my, my,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Someone is following me? Foolish, foolish…” And she felt something slithering invasively over her skin. “Mare… pony?” The grip tightened and she would have given anything to make a scream. The sensation then gripped her horn, her magic winking out. “Ah, unicorn. Pity. For a moment, I thought you were she. How wonderful that would have been.”

There was no response she could make. She struggled for a single breath. “Now. What to do with you? You’re disgustingly healthy. Good heart. Non-smoker. No meat. You should live to your eighties. Mmmm… maybe ovarian cancer. No no. Too obvious. Too simple to treat. I think… yes. That osteoblast is perfect. I think I can induce it riiiiight… There.” She felt a sting right above her pelvis. “Now we just need to grow and spread. This’ll only take a minute, sweetness.”

The hell with that. It took all off her strength to glance back over her shoulder at Tchernobog looking at the star, his mouth silently working as a warm ache spread through her hips. “It really is a pity. I’d hoped to run into Scotch again, but she’s disappeared. I can feel her wiggling about somewhere, like a maggot under your skin.” As the power coursed through her, the cracks propagated through the rock, hairs creeping out in all directions.

Scotch? This thing was after Scotch? She grit her teeth and put all her focus into her horn. It flickered to life again.

“What’s this? You’ve got some fight in you! Just give me a little longer. We’ll be stage four in just a minute, sweetness.”

“Bitch,” she whispered, raggedly, raising her gun. “I ain’t sweet!”

And then she put a bullet into her own hoof.

She hadn’t really planned this out, but the shock shook that evil grip paralyzing her body and snapped Tchernobog out of whatever monologuing he’d been engaged in. He broke his stargazing long enough to see her standing there, gasping for breath, her hoof on fire and bleeding like crazy. “It’s after Scotch,” she gasped, her body aching. “She’s after Scotch…” And she might have given her cancer.

And then the rock knob collapsed beneath her. She could barely stand, let alone jump free, and she tumbled down into the rolling waters. The cold, wet waves gripped her weapons and webbing, threatening to drag her down as she tried to simply keep her head above water. She struggled to unload, dropping her guns and weapons to the river bottom in an effort to stay afloat. She spotted Tchernobog silhouetted in the moonlight on the edge of the broken off stone. Then Vicious’s head struck a floating branch and the world swirled away into churning, dark water.

The moonlight filtering through the trees played on the weathered stones of the Old Road as Taliba walked cautiously down the center of the track. The Zencori librarian wasn’t precisely sure if it was preferable to travel at night or during the day, as there was little consensus to be found in more than five hundred tales involving the path. What she did know was that if she followed the Old Road west, then south, past the great city of Bastion, she’d arrive at the Great Library of Zanzebra. If any place served as capital for her tribe, it would be there. She’d call for a Conclave to verify her claims and then go home.

Truth mattered. For history and fiction. History depended on it to get as accurate as possible. Fiction so that the dramatic events were impactful as possible. Yet both Master Jahi and Baruti both had dismissed her concern with that air of ‘we are older so we know better.’ If her tribe had made an error with the books, then someone had to go to the Library and make certain that everything was in order.

Granted, she’d never stepped hoof out of her village before now, but she’d read a great deal about it.

Something in the woods let out a cry, and she started, the moonlight gleaming off the lenses of her glasses. “Well, whatever it is, I doubt it has business with me,” she murmured. The thick woods were only getting thicker. Eventually they’d turn into swampland, but she’d be going south before that happened. As bad as woods were in narratives, swamps were indisputably worse.

“Unless its business is lunch,” an old zebra stallion croaked beside her. Aside from the Eastern-style conical woven reed cap and Eschatik style cloak, he didn’t seem all that odd. Well, the fact that he’d been standing inches from her this whole time was more than enough to send her sprawling in shock. “Pardon,” he murmured as he hooked one leg around a knobby walking staff, “but you seem to be a bit out of your element. Trailblazer, at your service.”

“Trailblazer?” She furrowed her brow. “That’s not a proper name.”

“And yet, it is mine,” he said, extending out the staff, his foreleg bracing it to his shoulder so she could hook the knobby, twisted wood and pull herself to her hooves.

“Are you a spirit or a person?” she asked once she was back on her feet.

“Yes,” he answered with a chuckle.

She could think of at least seventeen different stories involving ‘Trailblazer,’ but none of them seemed to fit this stallion. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I thought I’d make a few more kilometers before I-.” There was a crack in the wood and she gasped, whirling and scooping up a rock, poised to throw. A moment later a branch tumbled out of a dead tree, landing with a thud in the undergrowth, yet she remained frozen.

He regarded her with flat gaze and asked, “Been in the wasteland long?”

“Three. Four hours,” she replied, her voice faint. She relaxed enough to drop the rock. A gunshot echoed in the distance, making her jump. “I… am… cautiously optimistic. Very cautious,” she murmured, more to herself than to Trailblazer.

“That’s wise. I suspect you are very optimistic as well. However, I suspect that a young librarian would be better served with at least some company on her travels.”

“How did you know I’m a librarian?” she asked with a frown.

“You packed books instead of food,” he said, looking at her swollen saddlebags.

“Oh, yes. Well…” she stammered. “I did bring some food. But I can just eat grass and leaves, right?”

“Oh? And do you know which are safe to eat?”

“No, but…” She paused and dug through her saddlebag, withdrawing a book. “See? Phytological Study of Zebrinican Plant Life, volume two.”

He smiled and arched a brow. “Well, perhaps you might stand a chance. However, do you know which Legion’s territory you are in? Natural threats? How to make a shelter?”

Taliba sat down, removed her saddlebags, and dug out a scroll, a pamphlet, and another thin text. “An essay on the northern legions and tribes, as well as appropriate markings and tribute, top ten threats while hiking in the Zebrinican coastal highlands, and beginner’s guide to roughing it!”

He laughed and nodded while she put the books neatly back. “Good. Good. Perhaps you might stand a good chance at that.” They started walking together through the moonlight. “So what brings you to the Old Road?”

She recounted the events in her village, with the old zebra listening and nodding appropriately. So refreshing after how dismissive her previous masters had been. “So after what Scotch told me, I have to make certain my people know the truth about the Cursed City.”

“I see,” he answered with another nod, stroking his beard. “I’m glad that young mare is still about. I knew there was something special about her. Not many ponies on the Old Road. Fewer still that are cursed by the stars.”

“She says they’re trying to learn if the Eye of the World was blinded. Can you imagine?” She offered a sickly smile, struggling to not think of a cursed person visiting her village.

“The world… blind?” he mused. “I think she mentioned something of that, but how could it be done?”

“It can’t. It’s impossible. If the world were blind–” she started to say, before swallowing.

“It would explain a great deal,” he said, nodding once. “Well, it’s settled. I’ve decided to help you, my dear Librarian.”

“Help me?” she frowned. “But I don’t need–”

“Now, now. None of that,” he said, and then put two hooves to his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. “There. That should do it.”

“Where? What?” she asked with a frown. Then, out in the woods came a shout. She wrenched that way in alarm, “Who’s over–” And her eyes returned to the old zebra stallion.

But Trailblazer wasn’t there.

Four gangly, scrawny zebras erupted. From their spikes and weapons, she guessed they weren’t the pleasant sort of zebra. She gave a sickly smile and raised a book. “Er… would you fellows care to hear a story?”

Two hours later, the Orah hunters were guffawing at Count Pew-Pew’s seduction of a Tappahani Queen, her daughter, and her maid in waiting.

The Orah who had found Taliba existed somewhere between hunters of beasts, raiders of opportunity, and slavers when the wind was north by north-west. They were pulling a massive wagon loaded with all sorts of trade goods for sell at Bastion, and since it was on her way, she’d exchanged stories for passage. None of the Orah could read, of course, but she had more than enough tales to share.

As she answered a call to nature, she returned passing by the front of the wagon. “You told it wrong,” came a hoarse voice from between the tongues of the wagon. She jumped and stared at the lone zebra chained to the pair.

“Excuse me?”

“That story about the Magnificent Twelve. Claudio’s date with Ignatia. They never went out,” said the most scarred and mutilated zebra she’d ever seen. So many scars crisscrossed his powerful frame that it was impossible to tell his tribe from his stripes. His glyphmark appeared to be a circular burn on both flanks.

“I’ll have you know that Claudio was a well documented… er… player, I think is the term. He was quite fond of all sorts of mares,” she said, furrowing her brow.

“He never dated any of them. Ever,” he rasped, his voice low and even. One of his eyes was gone, covered in a mass of keloid. The other, a sharp blue, bored into her.

“And how do you know, Mister…” she asked skeptically.

“Broken,” he answered in his thick, low voice, as rusty as the chains that covered his body. “And I just do. Claudio only loved one person, and it wasn’t Ignatia. They didn’t even like each other that much.”

“Oy! Story Teller! Tell us one about the Tappahani! They’re always good for a laugh!” the hunters called out.

“Coming,” she answered, glancing at him. He kept up that stare as she backed away. It would be a long night of storytelling, and last thing she needed was more mysteries. Stallions named Trailblazer and Broken. A cursed pony, who may very well have cursed her or her village. Secrets and lies parading as history. Stories were easier. Fact or Fiction. History or Drama. As the moon shone down upon her, she gazed back up at it. Maybe they’d like Prince Happahani’s seduction of the Moon King’s harem? She trotted back to the fire, mulling it over.

The silt-choked waters of Rice River churned like milk in the moonlight peeking through the flickering clouds. From his headquarters, Haimon gazed at the roiling waves passing beneath him. It was a pleasant illusion. Most of the time water simply looked red to him. In his hoof he held a photograph of himself only a few years ago. He smiled next to a mare giving the camera eyes normally reserved to the bedroom, while their daughter fussed in his hooves. His little brother pulled down one eyelid, sticking his tongue out at the photographer, a passing Green Legion trader. Its creases told of the many, many times it had been looked at and then folded up again.

This had once been a print shop, and the smell of ink still lingered. A single, naked bulb dangling from the ceiling provided illumination as music played downstairs. He made certain to sleep in a different place every night, often chosen completely at random. A mattress had been set up for him, but there was no sleep to be had. When the Irons decided to move, the first shell would go wherever they thought he was. While vanity suggested that was the only reason they didn’t attack, he knew Adolpha’s character. She would want the west back intact, not leveled. Carnico wanted workers, not corpses, so no gas attacks.

The back of his neck prickled, and the bulb pulsed and dimmed; twisted, malformed shadows like creeping fungus drew closer to him. Downstairs, the music became distorted, as if it were under water. “Shaman,” Haimon said, carefully folding up the photograph.

“You screwed up.” It came from the shadows. Had he not known them so well, the unnatural, hissing whispers in his ears would be quite unnerving. “You had one job to do and you screwed it up!”

“I have many jobs to do. Killing one pony in all of Zebrinica is not first on that list,” he murmured, then braced himself.

A force picked him up, slamming him hard against the wall. “It should be!” the world hissed around him, light bleeding away as the shadows deepened.

“I saw the pony for myself. I was not impressed,” he muttered. “She escaped through some lucky intervention.” And she knew things. Things no one else should know.

The force pulled him from the wall and smashed him into it again, rattling his teeth. “You should have killed her! I told you again and again, the second you laid eyes on her, to kill her.”

“I’ve never seen what consequence a pony child could be,” he grunted. “I still don’t.”

A strangled sound emanated from the dark, and he amused himself imaging a zebra pulling their mane in frustration. “You don’t? Do you not realize how fiendishly difficult it is to kill her? She evaded Riptide. Escaped here. She negotiated safe passage from a pair of bounty hunters. She somehow, somehow, made contact with that, that… thing you created in Greengap. And you could not kill her. And that is just what I know!” the voice hissed in his ears.

“So she’s lucky. Luck runs out eventually,” he grunted.

“Fool. All of you, fools. You think because she looks small and helpless that she’s not a threat. Xara thinks we can use her because she’s young and naive. She is cursed on a level you pair cannot even comprehend. Touched by a spirit that would destroy everything we hope to create. She evades legions, escapes monsters, negotiates with thugs, draws favors from spirits that even the most skilled shaman wouldn’t dare parley with.” The voice paused and then whispered like a knife in his ear, “And she does all this as a child. What will she do when she’s grown?”

Consternation flitted across his face. “I have my own problems here.”

“Oh,” the voice muttered. “Then let me add to your problems, Haimon. If you cannot kill a simple pony, I see no reason to bring your wretched family back.”

Haimon hung there, his eyes flickering to the folded up paper. “No. You swore! On the spirits, you swore! On your own soul, you promised to bring them back when the time was right!” Only a passing death. Like a long sleep. A shaman couldn’t break an oath like that!

“And the time will never be right until she is dead. I keep my promises. I brought you back from the dark, didn’t I?” The voice seemed to be crawling in his ears, as if it were trying to talk within his very skull. “Kill the pony.” A moment later, it chuckled. “Oh. And you have a guest.”

He collapsed to the floor, the shadows flicking away as the bulb burned brightly again. However, the music down stairs had halted entirely. Haimon rose to his hooves, swaying, as the door creaked open and heavy footsteps echoed in the old print shop. “You had one job to do,” a deep stallion’s voice rumbled as he walked into the pool of light. Scars crisscrossed every inch of his powerful frame, and blue eyes met red as General Sanguinus glared at him “And you screwed it up.”

“I had no idea how much this shop echoed,” Haimon muttered to himself. The next second, the general charged, slamming his chest into Haimon’s and smashing him up against the wall. Two hooves rammed his shoulders into the plaster, knocking heavy flakes from the wall and dusting him with it. “My mistake,” he wheezed. “Deja vu.” He saw the photo on the floor and covered it with his hind hoof.

“Your mistake is that you abandoned your post. Three weeks ago. You got on board a flying machine and left in the middle of the night. You didn’t return for forty eight hours. Where were you?” Sanguinus growled, pressing his hooves so firmly that Haimon’s shoulder crackled.

“If you must know, I was keeping our one overwhelming naval asset happy,” he replied. “The pirate was getting bored and wanted to go find some other seas to plunder. I had to convince her to stay in the area for when we need her.” Half true, the best kind of lie.

“And how much is that going to cost me?”

Haimon smirked back. At least this time this position gave him one advantage. “Nothing. She and I have a carnal arrangement.” And he pressed his hips forward, giving Sanguinus his best psychological attack. He felt that it definitely struck home.

“Stop that,” he growled. “I have no time for that.”

“You should make time,” he muttered helpless against the wall save for his hips. He repeated his attack a half dozen more times.

Haimon won as Sanguinus pulled back. “You are such a little bitch, Haimon,” he rumbled, with a tiny smile, the mighty general touching Haimon’s face. Few could ever imagine Sanguinus tender.

“I do whatever I have to to win,” Haimon countered. That was the one asset that saved him. Beneath all those scars were Carnilian stripes, and beneath those stripes was a heart that pined for a stallion’s touch. And unlike Carnilians, Roamani had no taboos for homosexual relationships. It hadn’t been hard to play the role Sanguinus desired. As for his beloved… well, what was a few more drops in a thousand miles of pitch-black ocean?

“You killed your family for me. You killed your home, for me,” Sanguinus murmured, hooking his head and kissing him hard, their tongues playing for a bit. Haimon watched as his general closed his eyes, his own half lidded as he kissed back. When the connection broke, the general sighed, “You have no idea how much I don’t want to kill you.”

Calming him took at least two hours, by which time they were both sticky, sweaty, sore, and in no kind of murdering mood. Haimon pressed his opportunity. “We need Riptide. If the Irons bombard us, she and her fliers are the only chance we’ll have to take them out. We’ve readied thermite bombs for their rail artillery. If they withdraw, we’ll need her guns to prevent them from coming back.”

“And when will that be?” Sanguinus asked, cuddled against him. “We have Irontown besieged, but we’re losing dozens every day.”

“You have thousands in reserve. I’m training reinforcements here, and my officers have been effective, yes?”

Sanguinus rolled his eyes. “Yes, I will admit your Roamani discipline has kept the rank and file in check. But as many bodies as I have, the Irons have far more bullets.”

“But they don’t have food, and they do have a very hungry slave population. And their forces are divided, half here and half in Irontown. Eventually Adolpha will have to leave to break the siege. When that happens, we cut a deal with Carnico and the Whites. Free withdrawal, and a payment, and Riptide doesn’t shell their factory.”

“Why not attack now?”

“Because the moment I do, Adolpha will blast us, then Carnico, then everything left standing. And I also know that she possesses poison gas shells. You know how effective they are.” Sanguinus grunted his acknowledgement. “We need to keep up the siege of Irontown till she withdraws her big guns. Our forces will cross and engage whatever she leaves behind, and the Whites.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” came a drawl from the door. Standing there was a zebra in power armor. Not the heavy, clunky armor of earth ponies, nor the swift black power armor of pegasi. Hers was white with gold trim, sleek and far more agile. The mare’s mane was styled in a disciplined buzz cut, but her grey eyes watched the pair with amusement. “Quite a show, you two.”

Sanguinus snarled, lunging up from the mattress, and Haimon grabbed him by the waist to slow him before he could murder the mare. “No, that’s Captain Argenta, and she is well paid to forget everything she sees!” he snapped at the general, then shot his eyes to hers. “Aren’t you?”

“Oh, indubitably,” she said with only the slightest suicidal sarcasm, her ashen eyes bright with mirth that was very close to getting her killed, or Sanguinus killed, or everyone killed.

“Get out,” Sanguinus growled at her. She wouldn’t get a second chance.

She turned on hoof, her armor utterly silent as she moved out the door. “Just letting the general know that your boat up the river was shelled. You’ll probably want to be getting a tractor now,” she called out over her shoulder with a smile as she departed.

Haimon kept tugging till Sanguinus returned to the mattress. “I hate that mare. All mares. All Golds. Them and their expensive toys.” Haimon rolled Sanguinus on his back and climbed atop him. It had the desired effect. He sighed and embraced him. “I want this over. I want to name you my second in command. I want you transferred to be at my side, always.”

“I want nothing else,” Haimon lied, giving his general another kiss. The Blood Legion had a multitude of lieutenants, captains, majors, and colonels. It would take time for the Irons, and his allies, to kill them all. “Let me give you something to remember me by,” he murmured in his ear as he started to move, giving his general everything he wanted in the pool of moonlight pouring down atop them.

This was a bad night, Vicious thought as she came to, her head throbbing and her hoof on fire. She bobbed along, her combat webbing caught in the branches of a floating log. She coughed and spluttered, which made her move her hooves, which reminded her that she’d shot herself in one. The lightheaded sensation, coupled with shivering, told her that if she wasn’t on her verge of exsanguination then she was becoming an excellent candidate for hypothermia. She hooked a leg around a branch and carefully tugged herself onto the log to prevent it from rolling over.

Where am I? was her most pressing question. Her PipBuck said she was twenty kilometers north of the bridge. Rice River didn’t meander much until it got close to the town, but it did widen and contract as it made its way north. She was currently bobbing in one of wider sections, where the water spread out almost farther than she could see in the dim moonlight. Countless islands and floating hummocks choked the waterway, waiting for a good winter flood to flush them all downstream.

“Shit,” she repeated over and over, illuminating her horn to look at the bloody mess. This was going to need surgery. Galen was definitely going to earn his pay if she got back. Split hoof. Fragmented bone. From the inflammation around the wound, infection was setting in. Blood still oozed out the puckered hole, and something slimy and black moved in the wound.

First thing first, she tugged that out and flung it into the river, then took stock. She only had one gun and knife left. Her survival kit was still in place. Waterproof matches still in their tube. She ejected one bullet from the automatic and with her magic and the knife carefully pried the bullet free of the casing. Very carefully, she sprinkled the powder into the wound. Extracting one match, she struck it on the inside of the tube cap, and it flared to life. Closing her eyes, she touched it to the wound.

Her excremental expletive echoed from one shore to the other.

Okay. That stopped the bleeding. She couldn’t dress it on a log, so she packed everything back up in her survival bag, keeping her hoof elevated. She’d lost a lot of blood, and there was only so long she could float along until something nasty came sniffing around. She needed to get somewhere dry, bandage her leg, and start a fire. Tchernobog would be looking for her. If he wasn’t still looking at that damned star.

When she’d recovered enough, she activated her PipBuck and looked around with the E.F.S. Way too much red in every direction. This would require some refinement. E.F.S. normally just picked up everything, but Vega had paid a pony ghoul to open up the utilities file and make an extra sensor settings tab. She accessed it and a menu popped up listing different filters. Hostile or non-hostile. Sapient or non sapient. Organic or robot. It made finding her targets much easier.

Hostile, non-sapient, and organic lit up her sight with dozens of red bars. The river was hungry tonight. Unfortunately she had no idea how far away they might be. Sapient threats were far fewer, but popped up on both shores. Nothing inorganic. She supposed that was a blessing.

She toggled to non-hostile, sapient, and organic. To her surprise, one yellow bar appeared in her sight. A person, out here, who wasn’t inclined to shoot first? Well, it beat trying to fight her way out to the shore.

Of course getting there wasn’t going to be fun at all. Fighting to keep her maimed forehoof above the water, she floundered in the direction of the bar, which seemed to occupy one of a series of small islands ahead of her. Keeping the knife levitated, she stabbed it into the water anytime she felt something brush her. Last thing she needed was more holes to cauterize.

The first island she came to was more a tangle of floating logs, but it was enough for her to catch her breath and remove the leeches trying to chew through her hide. The second she approached was a true, if muddy, island. She moved her head around to judge the distance. It was close, just a little further now. She slogged her way through the muck and onto the ice.

Wait. Ice?

She poked the shore several times to confirm it, but there was no denying a small shelf of filthy brown ice making a low barrier to the water. The leeches and snakes wouldn’t like it one bit. She shoved herself up the icy berm, the cold welcome on her aching hoof, and slid down the far side to see her third surprise since regaining consciousness.

The small form was wrapped in filthy rags, covered by a layer of insulating brush. Gnawed twigs lay in a heap around it. As she watched, it moved ever so slightly. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Hey,” she said, not able to think of what else to say.

The ball trembled and then unfurled, a colt’s head emerging from the weeds. “Who?” he muttered. The zebra’s coat was so filthy it was impossible to see his stripes, but only Sahaani had floofy hide like that. Moreover, he didn’t look at her, but instead stared off into space.

“Easy. I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?” she asked as she regarded his wide, vacant eyes. She levitated the knife before him, but he didn’t start in the slightest.

“Lumi,” he murmured.

“Okay, Lumi. I’m Vi…” Vicious paused, twisting her lips a moment. “Victoria. I’m going to light a fire, okay? Warm us both up? I have food too.” A blind zebra colt in the middle of Rice River? Call her curious.

“You’re helping me?” he asked. “Why?”

She paused. Why was she helping him? Hell, a few months ago she would have walked right past without a thought. Why in Zebrinica would she care now? “‘Cause I can, okay? It’s not a big thing,” she said in a rush, using her magic to collect the twigs and brush into a pile. Then she ignited it with a match. “You’re blind?” She carefully tended the flame, and he gave the tiniest of nods. “How did you wind up here?”

“I was trying to escape a monster.” She took out her survival kit and extracted a trail bar, putting it in his hooves. She then tried to properly dress her hoof. She gave herself a day, maybe two, before gangrene set in.

“Oh yeah? What kind? And how’d you do the ice wall thing? That was you, wasn’t it?”

“I asked the water to get cold enough to keep the beasts away. It was nice enough to listen. It’s a long way from where it was born, but it still remembers those snowy peaks,” the young zebra muttered, then took a bite of the bar, chewing it slowly. Clearly a wastelander. He wasn’t scarfing it down like most citified people would.

“Huh. So was it a radigator? Monster leech?”

“No. It was something worse. Much, much worse. A monster… horrible.” He started to shake, dropping the bar into the mud as he sobbed. “It’s my fault! I saw it! I saw it and it came after me. It killed them all to get to me.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you talking about? How can you see if you’re blind?” She paused, making the connection. “You’re a shaman?” He nodded slowly. “What was it?”

“I don’t know. It was horrible. Horrible! It killed my uncle It made another zebra stab himself. And then… then it ate… it ate Lumihautile!” he sobbed brokenly as Vicious wrapped the bandage around the end of her hoof. She normally kept healing potions on her webbing. She’d have to remember to put an extra in her kit if she survived. “It killed all the Greens trying to get to me.”

Greens? So this kid had been at the attack. Had ‘seen’ whatever it was. “Was Lumihautile your sister?”

“No. Lumihautile was my spirit. And it ate him,” he wept. “It killed him!”

Vicious didn’t know much about shamans, but you couldn’t hang out around ones like Tchernobog and not pick up bits here and there. And one thing that she’d learned was that spirits, whatever they were, didn’t die. You couldn’t just shoot one. They were living magic, or that’s how she thought of them. The thought of something that ate magic, or spirits, made her shiver.

“But… can spirits do that?” she asked in bafflement. “What can eat a spirit?”

“I don’t know. Eating a spirit… killing a spirit… you can’t do it. You just can’t! But it did. It did,” he sniffled.

“Okay, Lumi. Just relax. I’m going to take care of you now. We’ll go just as soon as my friend finds us.” The colt didn’t answer, just cried in the dirt. Given how shamans felt about spirits, she could only imagine it was like killing a child. Your child.

Vicious would never admit it out loud, but she had an issue with kids. Her own childhood had been as a slave, filled with horrors. If she could spare another kid that… well, too late for Lumi. But she could at least get him somewhere warm and safe. It was like Scotch… well, no. Scotch wasn’t a kid. She was like a tiny mare who looked like a kid. Like Vicious at Scotch’s age. “I wish Scotch was here,” she muttered. She just had this way about her.

“Scotch?” he murmured. “You mean the pony?”

Vicious blinked in surprise. “You know her?”

“She was a patient of my uncle’s,” he said as he raised his head a little. That made her smile, knowing that Scotch didn’t die an hour after leaving Rice River. “It wanted to kill her,” he said, and her smile vanished.

“It? The monster? The one that ate your spirit?” He nodded again. Vicious’s brain started to whirl. “Okay. Just sit tight. I’m going to get help.” Then she levitated the largest burning branch and started to wave it in the air, yelling out over the water, “Hey! Hey! Tchernobog! CHER-NOOO-BOOOOG!”

A yellow bar appeared, and she drew her pistol and fired it once into the air, then waved a second branch. Five minutes later, a skiff appeared, the muscular stallion struggling with the oars. She’d used magic to row them up river. “You live,” he muttered.

“You’re damned right I live. And that’s not all,” she said with a grim smile. “You remember that attack on all those Bloods and Greens?” He nodded soberly. “I found a witness. And he knows Scotch too. He saw it. It ate his spirit.”

“What?” he rumbled, his stoic, grumpy face for once utterly aghast. “One does not eat a spirit. The censure would be absolute and terrible.” His shock passed quickly, the furrowed brow and frown returning. “There was one being I know of capable of such a thing, and it was slain by Scotch’s companion. I still shiver to think of it.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Spirits are energy. The universe does not allow energy to be destroyed. We ask the spirits for their help. We may bribe them, threaten them, cajole them, seduce them, or use any other means of persuasion at our disposal. The truly mad can take that energy into themselves and merge with it. It isn’t destroyed, merely cohabitating a vessel. But to eat a spirit is to kill it. Butcher it. Render it down to that which is useful and consume it, and cast away the rest to rot. In doing so, one would get power, true, but also the spirit’s complete and total censure. It would be etched into a shaman’s very soul, inescapable, horrible, and permanent. To do so once would be harrowing. To do so more than once… no, I do not know how it would be possible.”

“I know that, but that’s what he said. Trust me, this kid isn’t lying,” she said as she boarded the skiff, keeping her weight off her bandaged hoof. Her grim smile turned into a scowl. “He says it was after Scotch.”

Tchernobog stared at her a moment, then turned to face the stars. “Dhruva, what is the path?” he asked, closing his eyes a moment. “To resign myself to as things are, or to walk blindly into the darkness?”

“Uhhh.” Damn zebras and their mystic crap.

“Load him. We need to return to Rice River, inform Vega of what we have learned, get you both medical attention, and then prepare for a long journey,” he rumbled softly, watching the moonlight streaking the water as the orb lowered towards the horizon.

“Why? Where are you going?”

“We,” Tchernobog said, never turning from the water. “We are going to find the thing that eats spirits, that hides from Starkatteri, and that cursed you.”

“Not a thing. It was an equine. A mare, I think. It left girly hoofprints in the stone,” Vicious said as she looked over at Lumi curled up next to the fire. “What are we going to do when we find it?”

“We are going to kill it. With great vigor and permanence.”

It was utterly foalish, but she couldn’t help herself. She grinned, lifting her pistol with her magic and working the slide, the weapon making a comfortingly ominous click clack as she chambered another round. “Fuck, yeah.”

Author's Notes:

Hi everyone. Sorry this took longer to get up than I planned. There's a Nanowrimo in July for people who have summer off or work on sunday, and I'm giving it a shot with an industrial fantasy story called Dyne. If you'd like to check it out, you can see updates on my Patreon.

Thanks to Kkat for creating FoE, thanks to Bro, Icy, Rach, and Heartshine for making the story halfway decent. Thanks to Tetrakern for handling the epubs. He's really awesome. Thanks to everyone who's read with me thus far, and thanks to everyone that's supported me and all my horrible writing.

Also, I did an interview. Preder is trying to get a Youtube Channel going, so I helped him out. You can watch it here.

Thanks again. Next chapter will be back to Scotch and company.