With a careful, critical eye, Dim examined their wagon and he was not alone. The fact that Blackbird was giving it a once over was reassuring, because she had a good eye for these sorts of things. Motte and Bailey were adjusting the harnesses, because they were the designated pony-power that would pull the wagon.

As for the wagon itself, it was made of lightweight gleaming metal, some wood, and most curiously of all, plastic. It had suspension, something he was grateful for because he would be riding in it, and a folding tent top that could be raised with but a little effort. The tent itself was oilskin and had a peculiar smell to it, which Dim took as a sign of being new.

It had tires, solid rubber, spoked wheels, which saved on weight, and a clever system for catching rainwater when the tent was deployed. Dim watched while Blackbird checked the various hinges and his ears pricked at the sound of the Bard chuckling in the background. When Blackbird frowned, Dim knew that the hinges did not pass inspection and something about them left her less than pleased.

“Pot metal,” she muttered under her breath, “cheap pot metal.”

“No floor drains either.” Dim looked Blackbird in the eye when she turned to face him. “If it rains and we don’t get the tent top up in time, the bed will flood.”

“Oh, good eye.” Blackbird’s claws clicked against the stone floor of the garage while her wings fidgeted against her sides. “Everything else is pretty impressive though. Skimping out on the hinges annoys me something fierce.”

Sitting on a barrel, Munro was studying a topographical map of the countryside around Gasconeigh and Dim glanced in the direction of his valet for a moment. The young minotaur appeared to be doing well—perhaps even having a nice time—and he conducted himself far, far better than Dim had hoped. Munro showed signs of being competent, and a competent servant was treasured.

“Not far from the cultist compound is a settlement of Abyssinians.” Munro began to fold up the map with his dexterous fingers and cast his glance in Dim’s direction. “It is called New Purrsia and they have a reputation as ethical meat traders. Might be a good place to get supplies.”

Saying nothing, Dim nodded.

The garage was damp and ripe with a chemical stink that made Dim’s lungs tickle. He wouldn’t be able to stay here much longer and would need to go somewhere with clean, conditioned air. It remained to be seen if the countryside would be agreeable, but he had been told that the weather was changing. They could expect warm, or even hot days, and cool, or even freezing nights. Of course, the nights would be less of a problem, because they would be taking shelter in farmhouses, due to whatever local superstition kept ponies and other creatures afraid of the dark.

For a moment, Dim lost his focus, his concentration, and his magic sense was overwhelmed. This city was rife with shadows, vile shadowlings that fed on fear. Here, they ran unchecked, or so it felt. No wonder the ponies here were so disorganised, so discontent, so eager to be at each other’s throats. If he and his friends stayed here, soon, they too would begin to bicker—that is if he left them vulnerable. Of course he had the ways and means to defend and protect against such vile infestations. Shadowlings were of no threat to Dim, and with some regret he thought of his foalhood attempts to keep them as pets.

Unable to feed on fear, all of them had died, having starved to death in the Dark Spire.

“Dim?”

“Sorry, Blackbird, I was distracted.”

“Yeah, I saw that.”

“The whole of this city needs to be purged—”

“Dim, under no circumstances are you allowed to burn the city down.” Blackbird summoned the sternest face she could muster and tried to scowl at Dim as hard as possible.

“There are dark things here,” Dim explained while admiring Blackbird’s scowl and thinking of all the ways she could do better. “Foul things. Dark things. They choke the city, hold it back, they keep the population weakened, irritable, and afraid. They are like weeds that choke a garden, only these are parasites that can impede the development of a city… or even the whole of a nation. So long as infestation exists, this city will continue to be at its worst.”

Blackbird’s face suffered a noticeable improvement: that is to say, she went from bad to worse with a truly grotesque scowl that Dim found he quite admired. It was, to say the very least, kissable. It was the sort of look that could make the blood run cold, send shivers down the spine, or maybe even clear a room. Blackbird was a magnificent creature when it came to expressing her emotions.

“So how do you fix something like that?” she asked.

“You get a cadre of capable wizards and you perform a purge,” he replied.

“Wait, hold up… does Istanbull have this problem?”

“No”—Dim shook his head—“Eerie keeps a clean house. Istanbull will progress and grow. Shadowlings are insidious and cause more harm than the common creature will ever realise.”

“That doesn’t strike me as being very fair.” Blackbird clucked her tongue a few times, shook her head, and her claws tapped upon the stone floor. “So… some places in the world have powerful enough wizards to keep them safe from these… whatever they are, but other places are just stuck suffering? Is that it? Ugh, that’s awful.”

“That’s life.” Dim shrugged. “Cities are breeding grounds for disease, for parasites both mundane and magical. Such is the nature of life. This city is riddled with a supernatural malady. A wise leader would hire a wandering wizard of considerable skill to clean this place up.”

“But the monsters would just come right back!”

“The wizard would eat very well and have a steady stream of income.”

“Life… just isn’t very fair…” Blackbird appeared to deflate and she sat down on the stone floor while shaking her head from side to side. “I don’t want to spend a minute longer in this city than I have to. Let’s get everything together that we need and go.”

To which Dim replied, “I agree wholeheartedly.”

Dawn came, dirty and disgusting, with the sun appearing to shove its way through the dingy, defiled sky like a newborn clawing its way out of a polluted placenta. Dim stood at the window, his eyes covered by his protective goggles, and he watched the coming of the sun into this filthy, undeserving part of the world while drinking the most unusual coffee he had ever consumed.

It was, no doubt, something from the islands, with spices, coconut milk, carob, and a healthy jigger of rum. There was a thickness to it, with it being more potion or concoction than coffee drink. Dim found that Pearl Fisher’s brew suited him and that somehow, it made him breathe easier. Or perhaps the rum had removed the ache from his chest, he couldn’t be certain.

“We alone, just you and I,” Pearl Fisher said to Dim, her voice husky and her every word spoken with a thick accent.

Staring straight ahead, Dim offered his response in return: “It worries a pony to hear a stallion’s wife talk about being alone. Perhaps we shouldn’t be.” It wasn’t that Dim was moral, per say, it was just that he had no interest; his mind was still pretty broken regarding these issues.

Her hooves clicking against the floor, the bold unicorn mare approached Dim from the side bearing the coffee drink in a hot, steaming vessel. She refilled his cup, topping it off, and then joined him in looking out the window while levitating the coffee carafe near her head. For but a moment, Dim allowed himself to look at her, and then he watched the hated, beloved, confusing dawn.

“My husband… he good pony and he try very hard. He have to do the impossible every day. That thin line between tyranny and goodness…”

To Dim’s ears, it sounded as though she has said, “Dat din line bedween dyranny and goodness.” Her patois was indeed, charming, but everything she had to say was quite alarming.

“I will ask you what my husband will not,” the mare continued in a low whisper while leaning in close to Dim. “He too good of a pony and you… you… are not. You are what Aunt Nancy calls a Heebie Jeebie. You’s the bad juju. A dire omen.”

Dim, watching as the sun made a valiant attempt to shine through the pollution, sighed.

“Aunt Nancy says that you’s the Heebie Jeebie King and that you’ve come to punish the wicked. A good pony, like my husband, he can't punish no wicked, because he is good. There is much that needs to be done that he can’t do. It outside his nature.”

“What do you want?” Dim asked, getting to the point.

“Heebie Jeebie King,” the mare said, her patois growing thicker by the second, “a good pony is beset by the wicked. If you save him, you can have the souls of the wicked for your dark rituals, whatever those might be. Claim the wicked as your own. That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

To Dim, it sounded as though she said, “Idnit.”

“Kill them.” These words were whispered but Dim still heard them. “Cut out the infection or this city will die. When you get to the compound, ask for a zebra named Indigo. Or maybe he’ll find you. He’ll know more of what is going on. Without your help, my husband’s position is precarious. I’ve looked through his papers… Princess Celestia of Equestria has offered him unconditional asylum and she begs him to flee. Princess Eerie also offers refuge. I don’t want to go, I want to stay… I want to fight… I want to see things made better.”

“I will do what I can.” Dim regretted the words even as he said them.

“One of the lords of the city be working with the bandits,” Pearl Fisher continued. “They place a cruel tax upon the farmers. Many are suffering through this dark menace. My husband cannot even make an accusation though, because doing so might upset his position—”

“And making a false accusation would be your husband’s undoing,” Dim said while viewing his own faint reflection in the glass. “His legs are hobbled and he can’t do the right thing for fear of repercussion. I understand. So… once I find out who is doing what and I have the irrefutable proof, then what?”

“You be the Heebie Jeebie King. I know not what wicked, vile acts you do, but Aunt Nancy says that you bring the righteous wrath of a slumbering god with you. Unbottle this wrath and let it wash over the city. Aunt Nancy says it is better to rebuild than to reconcile, because there can be no reconciliation with roaches and rats.”

This was subjectively true; you killed roaches and rats for the sake of cleanliness.

“I hear my daughter waking. I must go. Thank you. Please, you save my husband.”

“I will do what is necessary.” The bleak orange light shone through the window and revealed a city in need of saving. Dim had destroyed a few cities, because of accident or circumstance. Perhaps, to recompense, he could save one. Sipping his coffee drink, Dim watched the sun rise and felt the dreadful, horrible sting of light upon his flesh.

Munro’s map had a few additions that made it quite helpful, because the clever young minotaur had made notes. The roads around Gasconeigh had central spokes that radiated outwards with connecting roads that formed crude circles around the city. Wealthy, successful farms were located along the central spoke roads, and less successful, poorer farms could be found on the curved round roads that formed the ever-expanding circles around the city.

They would go north along the main spoke road and travel until daylight was in short supply. Dawn had come and gone, so now precious daylight was burning away. It was time to get moving and Dim intended to hustle everybody along if there was any further dawdling. They weren’t here to vacation, they were here to do a job and Dim was the consummate professional.

Chanson had marked the locations of several bandit camps on the map, or at least the approximate locations. There was one to the north, but it was more northeast. Off to the east, in a section of forest there were rolling hills and atop the highest hill was an old fort that had been taken over by bandits. Dim figured that this would be a good place to start looking for answers and it would be quite easy to do.

Walk in, kill those who resist, dominate the leaders, and ply them for answers.

If he was lucky, they would know something about Grogar’s agents or the Ascendancy.

The east was filled with lumber camps, herbalist’s ranges, some mines, and more farms that presumably grew whatever it was that could grow on hills. There were a few odd patrols along the eastern spoke road to protect the alchemical trade, but these patrols did not go out far enough to be a concern to the bandits. Dim had been up all night memorising every available note hoping to glean some important bit of information, to find some pattern that might give him answers.

It was time to go.

Author's Notes:

Next, we go north.