The bed of the wagon was strewn with the cold, remorseless instruments of death. While guns were a major power, a force to be reckoned with, a greater power existed, and that was brass. Industry birthed brass, and brass empowered guns. While there was something both effective and even charming with black powder firearms, brass made rapid reloads possible. Neatly prepackaged perfection, everything a shootist needed was housed in brass.

Blackbird brokered in brass; she was a banker, a merchant, as such she plied her trade with the exchange of brass and lead. Like a banker’s pen, each of her guns were polished to perfection and they gleamed with fresh oil, which she now wore like some exotic perfume. Each brass shell represented a transaction waiting to be finalised, with the ideal exchange medium being one bullet spent for one soul acquired—one shot, one kill. Her face had the calm austerity of an accountant sitting down to balance the books, only these ledgers belonged to Death herself, and Blackbird was her bank agent. What terrible industry existed in the world; what dreadful alchemy turned brass into naked souls, bereft of body.

The companions, killers all, prepared to ply their trade. Motte and Bailey also dealt in brass, though in different ways. Both were combat engineers, each with specialised skill sets. Motte turned brass into fiery blooms of absolute destruction through the intricate magic of mathematics, and it might be argued that no finer artillerist existed, save for Bailey, his counterpart. They were the same pony, after all, twin souls mirrored in different bodies. The mortar shell, now modified, was ready to be dropped.

In the bed of the wagon, there was enough firepower to start a revolution, which might just be the outcome of tonight’s raid. Dim, smoking his pipe, had a relaxed coolness about him, and he watched with casual interest as others worked with brass. Though a wizard, he did not dismiss his companions’ means to deal and distribute death. While he might have done so at one time, he had since grown to respect Blackbird—as well as the others. Though tight-lipped about the subject, he saw them as equals, at least when it came down to the dirty business of killing.

“Dim…”

“Blackbird?”

“I need something from you.”

“What’s that, Blackbird?”

“Reassurance. I need you to promise me that you won’t be in direct danger tonight.”

This was met with silence.

“Dim, don’t do this to me.”

A sigh happened and Dim’s small, slight torso heaved.

“Come on, this is hard on me. Don’t make it worse. For once, don’t be an asshole.”

“I won’t be in the thick of the fighting. I’ll be striking from unseen places. My hat should serve as a worthwhile distraction, it has grown quite magical from constant contact and will act as a lure. Distance is a detriment though. My magic’s potency diminishes with distance. Which is why I’ll be trying a few new things tonight to minimise my exposure to danger.”

“All those words and not one promise.”

“I can’t promise I’ll stay safe. Things can go wrong. Misfortune happens. I do have a plan to neutralise most risks to myself and I’ll be trying some of the new spells that I have learned.”

“I suppose that is the best I can get from you.” After a moment, with a sigh, she added, “What new spell have you learned to keep yourself safe? Is there some way you can reassure me? Otherwise, my head won’t be in this fight. I have to know that your safe.”

Motte and Bailey exchanged a glance.

“One of the new spells I learned is The War Maiden’s Emotional Ravager.” There was a dramatic pause to allow the name to sink in and an almost playful sneer graced Dim’s lips. “It creates a spirit of torment, a ravager of magical construction. It leaps into a mind, feeds upon the animus, gathers every bit of guilt, every dirty secret, every horrible, rotten thing, every secret shame, and causes a severe emotional reaction to these things. Then, stronger for having fed, it leaps to a new mind, bringing with it the secret knowledge of the first, and the damage becomes two-fold. The new target learns of every horrible thing that the first have done, as the spirit feeds upon their animus as well. Strengthened even more, the spirit goes off in search of new victims, gaining potency with each leap, and the crowd devolves into animalistic violence if all goes well.”

Blackbird, like the others, now wore a horrified blank stare.

“My family ridiculed this spell…” Dim shook his head from side to side. “Said it was worthless, because it didn’t cause direct harm. My own mother frowned upon it, said it was a waste of time. She said there was no sense burning it into the mind, because it was a frivolous expenditure of energy. My mother is foolish… she is stupid and weak minded. She only understands brute force and perceives subtlety as weakness. Once I release this spirit of torment tonight, I should be much, much safer, because everypony will be busy trying to kill one another for the horrible secrets and terrible acts they learn. The secret knowledge will drive them mad. If I am somehow discovered, I will be the least of their concerns.”

Motte shivered so hard that his teeth clattered together and then, with a blasting snort, he recovered himself. Holding his quad-barreled shotgun, he said, “I am reminded that the Darks are terrible ponies… even if you have one of them on your side or work for one.”

“So says the pony who modified the Nightmare Express and is plotting the brutal slaughter of bandits.”

“Touché.” Motte bowed his head. “At least this is being done for the right reasons.”

“And you get paid?” Dim asked.

“Of course. I don’t do what I do for free. Eerie pays me well and I sleep pretty good at night. I don’t mind doing awful things if it makes the world better, and everything that Eerie has asked me to do has made the world better in some way. Though I don’t always agree with Eerie’s methods, I trust her.”

This gave Dim pause for consideration.

“I’ve killed before.” There was an unsteady waver to Blackbird’s voice, a vulnerable tremour that made her companions turn to look at her. “It was always… defensively? Well, except for that one time when it was an accident and I made that pony’s head explode. But that’s beside the point. This time, I’m about to be the aggressor. I’m about to show up at a fort where creatures are minding their own business and I’m gonna murderise them to death. I don’t know how I feel. Really, I don’t know how I should feel. All I can do is keep reminding myself that I’m killing them before they can do something real bad to the city of Gasconeigh.”

“Blackbird, we have a chance to stop something bad from happening. We have to strengthen our resolve and do what is necessary. You’ve seen the peasants around here. We’ve stayed with them… broke bread with them. Eaten their food and benefited from their hospitality. We owe them. If we don’t fight for them, who will?”

“You’re right.” Blackbird closed her eyes and a profound change overcame her face. “It doesn’t make it any easier, but you’re right. We owe them whatever we can give them.” Grim acceptance could now be seen, and when she opened her eyes, they were flinty-glinty, like a cat preparing for a pounce.

In silence, Dim retreated into his own thoughts, thinking about what he owed others.

There was hardly a moon at all in the skies above, a thin, almost nonexistent sliver of silver surrounded by the cold stars of autumn. It was the coldest night so far and the frigid chill that haunted the air whispered the suggestion that winter would soon arrive. It was a still night, quiet, a night given to sitting around the fire and drinking—which is what many did, including the inhabitants of the fort atop the hill.

It was a night given to song, to revelry, and there was a palpable excitement in the air. Their ranks had swollen considerably, many had joined their cause and the promise of a new, better life loomed large before them. Soon, all of Fancy would be united beneath one banner, one crowned head, and a great many toasts were raised to Duc Truffe—soon to be Roi Truffe, or possibly even Empereur Truffe. There was a fortune to be made in becoming one of his soldiers and he promised a glorious future full of conquest, glory, and valour.

And for the brigands, those who lived by questionable means… a legitimate pardon.

After all, it wasn’t their fault they had turned to banditry, no. Such soft language had inspired them, given them hope. No, their problems, their misdeeds could be blamed upon another, who now hung in effigy from the gate and would soon hang in real life; Duc Chanson Argentée. Such a traitor was he… a failed governor who had surrendered his own island to savages and was now plotting to parcel out Fancy, giving away the once mighty empire to foreign interests. Soon, if Duc Chanson Argentée had his way, Fancy would cease to exist. It would become a nation of zebras, of savages, the once proud nation would fall to outsiders. For Duc Chanson Argentée would surely sell out Fancy to its former slaves, bleeding heart that he was.

Such a thing would not stand.

From out of the woods a hat came flying, a broad-brimmed conical hat, the sort of hat that might have been worn by a wizard that had no fucks to give about fashionable standards. This hat, whatever colour it might have been, was now a weathered grey, and its brim undulated like the frill of a cuttlefish while it flew through the air, weaving and bobbing between the trees.

Peculiarly enough, the hat could be heard humming to itself, a tune that was remarkably like The Battle Hymn of the United Tribes, something most typically heard in Equestria, of all places. It was certainly not the sort of thing that one expected a hat to be humming, but then one, one did not expect such a hat to be wizardless while venturing through the woods. What was a hat without its wizard? A sad, lonesome piece of headwear indeed.

It’s pointed tip turned to and fro, as if it were looking around, keeping an eye out for trouble while it swam through the air with the smooth undulations of its floppy, flappy brim. It raced for the fort ahead, unconcerned about a stealthy approach, and moved with remarkable speed—unbelievable speed, really, for who could believe that a hat could be in such a hurry?

It banked, making a hard turn, and flew in the direction of the gate, buoyed along by unseen currents, swimming through a nonexistent ocean. It bobbed in excitement upon seeing the gate, as if it was tipping itself to say hello to the guards, and then the hat did the most unexpected thing: it let out a cough, cleared its throat, and addressed the creatures in a booming voice.

“I am Dim, the Unfathomable Djinn of Istanbull, the Unkillable, Unseeable, Invulnerable Spirit of Torment! You disgusting primitives are wicked, prepare to die!”

Without further ado, the hat cast a fireball, which went soaring for the gate with a whoosh. The guards scrambled, some took wing, each of them trying to escape from the tiny wisp of fire that flew unerringly right at them. On impact, the tiny blob of fire blossomed and it was as if Tartarus vomited out unholy fire. The gate was blasted into splinters, the numbers of which rivaled the stars above, and burning hunks of wood. A wave of heat washed over the whole area and the sharpened wooden logs that made up the walls ignited.

As an opener, it was impressive by any standards; but from a hat, doubly so.

With the gate obliterated, the hat invited itself inside while the occupants of the fort scrambled to defend themselves from the unlikely invader. The first volleys of musket fire rang out, smoke filled the central yard, and miniballs went whizzing through the air. Holes were torn in the fabric of the hat and a shattered wine bottle fell, with wine dribbling down like blood. But the hat, undaunted by gunfire, unconcerned by the sheer number of miniballs in the air, hovered in place while its pointed tip bobbed up and down like a wagging finger of shame.

While those armed with muskets reloaded, earth ponies chucked stones, a truly devastating barrage against fleshy, squishy targets. But the hat had no such concerns, and though bleeding wine, the hat proved to be invulnerable to the rain of rocks. Another fireball was lobbed off with casual disregard and this one ignited the open air kitchen. The occupants of the fort were panicked now, and the greedy flames licked at the wooden structure in hungry anticipation.

High overhead, a black shadow obscured the stars, an insubstantial phantom.

In the chaos, no one noticed the cylindrical brass object striking the ground just in front of the keep’s double doors. No one heard the popping sound over the sound roaring flames, screams, and musket fire. The hiss went unnoticed, as did the shimmering waves. As the hat made a mocking gesture with its brim, the sweet scent of lilacs joined the stench of burning hair and feathers. As the lilac perfume spread, eyes bulged, nostrils flared, and a sudden change overtook the crowd of defenders.

A single glowing orb flew forth, not from the hat, but from somewhere unseen out past the gate, and it struck an earth pony getting ready to hurl a rock. It froze, its face a rictus of agony, and then the orb, now even brighter, flew off at another target while the earth pony collapsed to the ground, clutching its temples with its front hooves. This orb bounced around, going from head to head, creature to creature, leaving chaos in its wake.

One of the griffons, his eyes wide with fear, his talons trembling with rage, pointed his musket at one of his fellow pegasus ponies. “Vous l'avez pris!” the griffon hollered, and then, pulling the trigger, blew the head clean off of the pegasus pony. The violent act did not go unnoticed, and other pegasus ponies, succumbing to the spell and to the scent of lilacs, turned on the griffon with the musket.

Discord, so sown, reaped a bitter harvest.

Author's Notes:

Not sure if this counts as a cliffhanger.