In the pale, wan light of the frozen dawn, the fires still burned. With light came the rubberneckers, the gawkers, the looky-loos. Dim stood near some flaming sharpened logs that had once been part of the fort’s palisades, but were now just so much blackened, burnt wreckage. While he warmed himself near the fire, the onlookers shouted words he did not understand and their faces were decidedly angry, which concerned him. Had he killed their sons? Perhaps. But then, he’d ended the lives of many sons for a variety of reasons, and these were no different.

Blackbird too, warmed herself by the fire, and she stood in reserved silence whilst squirming a great deal. Motte and Bailey were tossing bodies and remains onto another fire some distance away, their faces grim and blackened with soot. Munro prowled the area, a stiletto in hand, making a quick end to any of the suffering survivors. Occasionally, a head would pop up out of the scorched soil, hopeful, joyful to see daylight, struggling to avoid the dreadful fate of being buried alive, only to be stabbed by the apologetic minotaur that was a bit too eager to do his job.

Daylight truly revealed the devastation that the night had concealed. What had once been a hill was now more of a crescent-shaped crater, with the stone innards of the motte spilled out onto open ground. Scattered among the many fire-blackened stones were bones—a great many bones—most of which were charred and devoid of tissue. At least those deaths were quick; a fair number had been buried alive when the tilting hill had collapsed and spilled them down the slope.

Not far away from the fire, a dirty orange head poked up out of the soil and Dim could not help but think of carrots for some reason. Munro hustled over to do his job, stepping between bones and cindery husks that had once been bodies. When the stiletto was driven deep, the unmistakable sound of metal striking bone could be heard and it struck a discordant note that resonated against the glorious dawn.

No quarter. No survivors. Fancy was about to slip into revolution, of this there could be no doubt, and Gasconeigh might have already fallen, for all that Dim knew. In the aftermath of anarchy, there would be no time, no force of law for trials and sentencing of these souls. It was better—merciful even—to finish them off and spare them a far worse fate.

“Blackbird… Blackbird, must you keep squirming? Do you have fleas? Can you not be still?” Dim allowed his level gaze to fall upon his companion, and he wondered what she was feeling. The grey soot upon her black face gave her a curious, haunted expression, and she lingered like a supplicant spirit awaiting answers.

In response, Blackbird squirmed even more, and began kicking out her left hind leg so that she might give it a shake. “I itch everywhere and I think I need a bath. Also…”

“Yes?” One of Dim’s eyebrows arched in a perfect curve that matched the round edge of his smoked glass goggles.

Blackbird’s eyes darted about in some avian way, or perhaps feline, it was difficult to tell for Dim, and then he heard her reply, “My asshole has a cramp from clenching.”

Upon hearing this stunning revelation, Dim snorted, and behind his black lenses, his eyes rolled. It was almost funny, in a terrible way, but there was no way that he would allow himself to show any signs of mirth and he maintained his stoic exteriour, though his lip did curl back into a sneer.

“You should kiss it and make it better,” she suggested, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

When faced with the blackest of circumstances, Blackbird always fell back on humour, something that Dim held a grudging admiration for. She was coping with this in her own way. Her ebony hide had a number of crimson streaks, some of which were welts. Grazes—only grazes. Somehow, she had flown between the volleys of hot lead spewed out by muskets and blunderbusses.

Bombay emerged from the crowd, her paws resting on her sword and her pistol, which for now, remained slung on her belt. Her scarred head was covered in a colourful bright green scarf, which gave her a roguish, highway cat look. An odd appearance to observe, given the ruined fort and the hundreds of bodies of dead bandits.

“We have angry locals, Dim,” she said whilst approaching. “As bad as the bandits were, they kept away worse things. They were a force of protection in the region and these peasants want to know who is going to protect them now. Some of them are getting heated, Dim. Expect trouble.”

Turning his head, he surveyed the distant mob and his ears pricked at the sound of their rapidly spoken words. He had just quelled a bandit revolt, and the idea of putting down a peasant revolt unnerved him. These ungrateful disgusting primitives… after all that he had done and after sacrificing his hat—his hat—these disgusting primitives had the audacity to look upon the bandits as a favourable force of protection.

Gritting his teeth, he calmed himself and reminded himself that these poor wretches lived without any sort of adequate protection. They had no wizard, no knight, no force of righteousness to protect them. In desperation, they had turned to the false-protection of the bandits, a sort of security racket, no doubt whose terms worked in the favour of the bandits. Just thinking about it made him feel sick.

Blackbird continued to squirm but Dim no longer found it quite as distracting, considering that his mind was now elsewhere. What terrible desperation drove these poor souls to entreat such degenerate protectors? To beseech such reprehensible guardians? What hopelessness they must have to see those who robbed them as watchdogs. Through narrowed eyes, he studied them, trying to understand their motivations.

An older stallion with a pox-scarred face and one rheumy eye approached, his right hind leg almost dragging behind him with each step. Life had not been kind to this poor fellow and rather than feel annoyed, Dim felt something else, something unknown for this poor wretch. Anger flashed in his one good eye, it glinted fiercely in the dawn’s light, but when he spoke, his words were calm and measured.

“Oi, who’ll keep us lot safe now?” he asked in a thick, hard-to-understand Grittish accent. “As bad as those sots were, there was worse things they kept away. They hunted the wolves for sport, so they did, and I bet my good eye that the occupied fort was what kept away those buggering bloody owlbears.”

“But they took from you,” Blackbird blurted out while she whirled to face the accuser.

“Oi, so they did, but they never took too much, so they didn’t,” the old stallion replied. “It was like paying taxes… only unlike the taxes we pay to those stuffy ducs in the city, we actually saw some benefit from what we paid to this lot. We got something in return. Now? We got nothing. What’ll we do with nothing?”

Paws still resting upon her sword and pistol, Bombay clucked her tongue while motes of magic danced along her clawed fingertips. Though her expression was one of anger, her words were soft when she spoke to the hobbled elder.

“Do you not have griffons who guard your houses?” she asked, her paw-fingers drumming against her weapons, which caused raw magic to go trailing away in arcing sparks. “Take whatever it was that you were coerced to pay the bandits and redistribute it amongst yourselves. Organise a militia. Security is a commodity, and like anything that costs coin, you get what you pay for. Invest in your protectors. Don’t be… lazy”—she spat this word out—“and just wait for help to arrive. Save yourselves. If you had the means to pay them”—she extended her paw and pointed to where Motte was chucking yet another corpse onto the fire—“then you have the means to finance your own well-being.”

The old pony licked his lips a few times, blinked his eyes, and then focused a wary stare upon the Abyssinian that had just told him off. He started to say something, Dim saw it, but then the words died upon the elder’s lips. Ears bobbed, his thin, sparse tail flicked, and the old pony seemed to be attempting to conjure up an argument, but Bombay’s words had a ring of self-evident truth about them. Some of the gathered crowd had gone still, silent, and appeared to be waiting for the old fellow to say something.

Without warning, everything was interrupted by a menacing silhouette that arrived from the west. A gunship approached and when Dim squinted through the smoked glass of his goggles, he could see the glint of sunlight reflecting upon the armored steel hull. Flying low and slow, the nacelle was emblazoned with the colours of the Fancy Foreign Legion. Upon seeing it, the peasants scattered with all due haste, even the old fellow turned out to be quite spry when properly motivated.

“Blackbird… mind your cramped asshole. We have guests.”

His face a stoic mask, Dim sized up the approaching griffon and his four guards, two pistoleers and two grenadiers. Interestly enough, the griffon—while having a martial bearing—didn’t strike Dim as being a soldier. He was too clean, too fussy, too immaculate, and the monocle hanging from a thin brass chain around his neck just wasn’t very soldierly. His pillbox hat with the short, stubby brim seemed out of place upon his head, almost as if were an afterthought, something only worn for show.

“Prince Dim, of Istanbull,” one of the grenadiers said, barking out the words in a rough, soldierly greeting, before slipping into a stiff, starchy salute. “Commandant Graham of the Airborne Pacification Peacekeepers.”

“What news of Gasconeigh?” Dim asked before Commandant Graham could say anything.

“There is a tenuous peace, but it won’t last,” the commandant replied, shaking his head. “As for the rest of Fancy, it has fallen. Rioting has overtaken the major cities and the citizenry revolts. Our worst suspicions have been confirmed, as this is a concerted effort on the part of our enemies. That courier had some… revealing documentation.”

“You’re not from Fancy.” This wasn’t posed as a question. After sizing the commandant up and hearing him speak, Dim had ascertained a great deal.

“Well, this is the Fancy Foreign Legion. We take all types.”

“What’s an Equestrian doing in the Fancy Foreign Legion?” Dim turned the full force of his piercing stare upon the commandant, looking him right in the eye. “Tell me, is this how Princess Celestia polices the world? Sending her educated, indoctrinated diplomats out to fill dedicated positions of importance? An Equestrian pony might draw attention… but an Equestrian griffon... nopony expects an Equestrian griffon.”

“I was warned that you were cunning, but this goes beyond the pale.” Commandant Graham made a strange sound, almost as if he was clearing his throat.

“So Fancy has fallen,” Dim remarked.

“In one night of bloody revolt.” Commandant Graham took a moment to steady himself and when he spoke again, his words were a detached, clinical monotone. “Gasconeigh only stands through good fortune. We arrived through circumstance, namely, to deal with the incident involving Captain Jolie Rouge. Had that not happened, we might not be in the city at all, and a very different outcome might’ve happened. As it is, the entire fleet is convening in Gasconeigh, but you’ll learn more about that later. I was dispatched to pacify and restore peace at the mine.”

“I see.” Dim, unmoving, took a moment to collect his thoughts. Fortuitous circumstances, indeed. Thankful for whatever luck that had brought about this happenstance, he continued to study Commandant Graham. “We shall probably encounter the false-alicorns at the mine. They are quite difficult to kill. I suggest caution, as I doubt fleeing will be an option. They are unbelievably difficult to put down and finish off.”

Lowering his head, Commandant Graham’s eyes narrowed and his voice went low. “I am under orders from Princess Celestia herself to find out more about the Ascendancy. Which is why I was dispatched to find you and deal with this… situation. Command is aware of my priorities and my… interests.”

“The fort—”

“Yes, Garrabow, the fort has been obliterated,” Commandant Graham said to the grenadier that had done the brusque introduction. “Behold, Garrabow, what Equestria has loosed upon the world… the Darks. From my briefing, I am told that Dim here isn’t the most powerful of them, but has been observed to possess demented creativity and imagination that goes beyond the ken of most.” Squinting one avian eye, the commandant gave Dim a practiced look of appraisal. “Be mindful, Dim. Dreadful Dark was sprung from the mental asylum and we know him to be right here in Fancy. Princess Celestia suspects that he’s either looking for you, the Ascendancy, or both. He’s out for prizes.”

Though he showed no outward signs, Dim’s blood cooled considerably and he fought to repress a shiver. There were only stories—but in this instance stories were enough. Uncle Dreadful had a penchant for necromancy and the buggery of young colts, two grotesque hobbies that should never, ever, under any circumstances, ever intermingle.

“As soon as you are ready to go, Dim, we’ll ship out.”

Author's Notes:

Soon: the mine.