There was a dream; a black, sickly dream that tried to swallow me, consume me with darkness and heavy, black words.

It wasn't a nightmare -- I didn't have nightmares anymore, but still, it was all wrong, heavy and draining. It was dull grey nothing that dragged me in, full of whispering, slithering spells that pulled on my horn, that seeped into my bones, twisted upon the very core of my magic, drawing me deeper and deeper into the formless abyss...

I ripped away, the fire of my magic tearing through the nightmare, and without opening my eyes, feeling the enemy with nothing but raw instinct, I launched into a spell from prone.

A whip, weaved from stale air and stone-dust, ten steps of coiled sharpness stretching towards him from the tip of my horn -- it struck him across the muzzle, the green flash of my magic lighting up the one-eyed face, the matted hair and coat, the curved horns and sharp teeth.

It cried, a short goat-like bray of pain and surprise, and his curved horns shimmered with the black-and-gold haze of his own magic, scattering the light around the room. Blood flowed, and sparks of my magic scattered across his form when he ripped my spell apart like a shoelace.

My body was sluggish, weak, poisoned, but my mind was still mine, registering every surrounding detail as much as I could, through the darkness in my eyes and the black, heavy fog that enveloped my mind. Awareness was the first rule.

The cell was small and damp, giving the advantage to the bigger arimaspi, and making my already unstable hooves skid along the uneven floor.

He threw the chains at me — no, they moved from his hands under their own power, as if alive, rearing like attacking snakes before lunging at me. I batted them away with my magic, stepping back. Darkness clouded my eyes, and I could barely see him through the vertigo and sickness of the poison, but I pressed again, a half-formed, mangled spell breaking against his crossed hands, flashes of emerald lighting a web-like pattern of wounds and scars under his fur.

He barked an ugly, twisted spell, and his horns shone with black and green as he threw it. It slipped clean through my shield and exploded in my face, throwing me back down on the ground, making stars dance in my vision and my lips pop like overripe berries. I forced my numb body to move, tumbling through an awkward dodge against the follow-up swing of his giant paw.

He whimpered when his claw scratched against the stone and muttered a string of curses, ugly gash in his cheek flapping with every word.

There was something wrong with his magic, something that I would figure out if I could just have some time to concentrate, to push away the haze of the drug and the half-laid curse, the elixirs in my blood and the spells in my bones already working to purge the poison. I stood up, wobbly and unsteady, and tried to figure out what he did to me, what spell was he weaving—

I pushed the irrelevant thoughts aside. First rule of life: When in doubt, step forward.

Stepping forward, I spat a proper hex, short and vicious, like a glob of acid. It was meant to take his eye, but I was still woozy and it hit his shoulder instead, black magic sizzling as it dissolved the flesh and seeped into his blood, the skin, scarred with magic patterns, peeling from the bone in ragged strips.

Whining, the arimaspi made a gesture with his hand, trying to weave a spell, but I was faster. My light-spell ripped the darkness apart, blinding the creature in the middle of his own casting, and before it recovered, I released another spell. A chain of my magic whipped round his neck, dragging him down to the uneven floor with the weights conjured out of thin air, and tying him to the bars of the prison, dragging him down as it suffocated him.

He wheezed, and pulled madly on the choking collar, fluttering like a shored fish, before he managed to collect his wits. His undamaged hand, whipped about, twisting in strange gestures that seemed to dissolve my magics where his skin touched them, but before he had the chance to draw a breath, a raw blast of magic rammed into his gut, throwing him on his back, and I was already on him.

The arimaspi did not try to stand up — he lay in a heap where the spell threw him, whimpering in pain, and trying to blend into the wall. He stretched his hand towards me, shielding himself against the strike.

First rule of life: One does not kick fallen enemies -- one destroys them so that they will never rise again.

“Please…” he begged, “Please!”

But it was already too late: From within me, dredging up the last reserves of my power, a feeling ripped out, the fear of almost being bound and anger and pain of the poison rising like the vomitous bile through my horn in a wave of pure energy. I could not stop myself if I wanted to, and in that moment it felt too good to even try. Screaming, I let myself be subsumed into the pure act of destruction — sloppy and inefficient, it would still be enough to crush the ugly creature forever.

The arimaspi twisted underneath me, intersecting the flame with his left hand, and the symbols scratched into his paw glowed in the brilliant light as he caught my spell. A chain of Coltec-patterned scars lit up under his coat, all ugly angles and twisty coils, running down his arm and his shoulder, and up his horn. His sole eye shone, with triumph and there was an explosion, like a clap of thunder between us, throwing me off, and skidding on the floor.

I rose, unsteady and half-blind, grasping for a curse at him, malformed and misshapen, while he tried to stand up, suddenly invigorated, but my magic slid off his coat like water off the pegasus’ wings. He hissed a slithering, ugly spell in turn and pain exploded in my guts.

"I own your magic, you little spy!" he screamed, jagged shards of sharp teeth flashing in his ripped mouth, spittle dripping everywhere, his rage a revenge for the humiliation and fear he experienced a second ago.

He hit me again, as I tried to stand up, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, his hand shining with green magics and throwing me against the wall. The pain, blazing through my ribs and the side of my face was the only thing that kept me from the black oblivion of unconsciousness.

His horns sparkling with black and emerald, he stretched his hand, and long bands of green flew off his hand, slipping clean through my shield and my skins, ignoring my defences and the spellwork woven into my coat like they weren't even there, my own magic turned against me, binging my limbs and horn.

“I own you!” he rained another blow on me, an awkward pawing slap that pressed my head into the floor. His spittle flew off his mouth, mixed with the black of his blood. “You’re mine now!” He kicked at my belly. “Mine!”

I tried to rise, struggling against the bindings and he clasped his hand slowly, his horns burning with black and emerald -- my emerald — magic, and it was like ice exploded in my chest, wave of nauseating cold spilling all over my body, and the light dimmed in my eyes. "I—"

"Enough." Fancy stepped from the shadows, his magic slicing away my bindings. “That was not the deal.”

The arimaspi punched me again, and then a few more backhanded, awkward kicks for good measure, but finally he seemed sated. He stepped slowly back, and allowed me to breathe and slowly uncurl on the floor. I wanted to fight him again, to lounge again, spell and horn but I was battered and could barely move. And though the pain didn't bother me so much, and I may be able to force the battered flesh to serve, there was no more fight to be had until I figured out what he had done to me. So I stayed down and breathed, as deep and steady as my bruised sides would allow, waiting for the red circles to stop dancing in my vision.

“How do you feel?” the Count asked me, with what seemed like genuine concern. His magic wrapped around me, making my skin cold and numb with the pain-killing spells. “It is quite remarkable that you’re even conscious right no--”

I threw up. A long retch, almost enjoyable despite the waves of pain and nausea brought by each spasm of my stomach. I could feel the poison purging from my body along with the undigested daisies and Count's fancy wine. Finally done, I was parched, and there was a foul, acerb taste in my mouth, but at least I started to feel better.

"Drink, Miss Shimmer. No poison this time, I swear."

The Count passed me a bottle of water. I wanted to break it and stab him in the face with the glass, but I have outgrown pointless gestures.

First rule of life -- empty threats are a sign of weakness. Never threaten that which you cannot destroy.

He took a demonstrative gulp from the bottle and brought it back to my lips. It was cold, and it was good. I drank, while he cleaned the blood and the bile off my coat. I concentrated on my breathing and watched the arimaspi and the Count through half-lidded eyes.

Without its robe, I could see its body clearly. He was a gaunt, almost skeletal thing, without a single ounce of fat on its lean frame. Its skin stretched so tight over the hard cords of muscle, it threatened to snap, like a thin layer of wax melted over an anatomy model, covered in marks and lesions and outgrowths.

He whimpered, looking over the cuts on his hands and testing the ripped-up cheek with his fingers, and then green and gold sparks scattered down his coat, tying the flesh together with a vomit-inducing sucking sound.

"For what it's worth I do apologize for the poisoning. I’m afraid it was somewhat out of my hooves."

“Can we talk now?” The arimaspi was growing impatient -- funny, given that in prison he must’ve had nothing but time.

"You." My faculties still not quite present, I felt the need to state the obvious. "You're working with him? How long?"

"It's not like I had much choice, Miss Shimmer." Fancy pursed his lips in distaste. "First meal I took when I arrived, and, well..."

The arimaspi giggled, a scattered, hyena-like chortle cut short by a pained whimper of his bothered wound.

Fancy ignored him. "Same thing as happened to you, though in much less unpleasant circumstance. I’m afraid we have to give him what he wants. “

“And what is it that you want?” I turned to the arimaspi.

"You have hurt me, little mare. Hurt me, hurt my plans, yes. Now I hurt you, but that is not enough, not enough at all. You shall help me now, go out and do my bidding, yes."

"I..." I licked my lips. “You want the Idol, don’t you?”

"It is mine!" he hissed with sudden anger, half-healed cheek ripped anew, spurting ichor everywhere. "It belongs to us, not the mangy, thieving cat-birds!"

“Why would I help you?”

“Because the war is coming on the wings of griffons.” The Count glared at the creature. “There is no other way to stop it. The Idol and the war are a threat to Equestria now, but the arimaspi is a long-term problem. He can be dealt with later.”

“See, little pony, there are common interests to be achieved by us working together,” the arimaspi said. “Not just your life,” he raised his hand, and the flickers of black and green ran up his horn, echoing within my chest, “But your goals depend on me, yes, yes they do. That is the wisdom of the world little pony, yes, the one that Griffons knew once. Plomo o plata, lead or silver. Give this choice to anyone, and they will choose right every single time. And so will you, yes, yes you will.“

I lowered my eyes. I felt cold. Cold and tired. I nodded, showing that that I was willing to listen

My time would come. Any trap, unless immediately lethal must have an escape -- otherwise there is no point. All I needed was to figure it out. For now I concentrated on the Count's words and tender mercies, keeping to the act of the defeated and broken mare. I even threw up again, though, that one was not exactly voluntary.

“How?” I said, after recovering from the spasms. “How would we get it? I don’t even know where it is.”

"In the bowels of Gormenghast, there is a cave, yes, not as old as the castle. Geskleithron it is called and stolen from us it was, yes, taken when master’s cities fell. There they hide the Idol of Boreas, tlaotani's treasure, yes, yes, his treasure. Locked it is, protected day in and day out. Not dogs, though dogs there are, yes, not eagles, no, though they stand by the door, a spell - a vile, vile spell, closed with royal blood, carved with griffon claws, howling with the icy winds. None may pass, yes, none may pass but the King and the Prince and his son, and his son’s son when there is one, royal blood to three generations. There you must go, yes, and come back and bring the Idol to me.“

“It’s not quite as grim, Miss Shimmer,” the Count interjected, encouraging me. “There is a way.”

"First you shall need to find the path in, past the guards, the dogs and the eagles. "

"You're close enough with the Princes," the Count interjected, "we can use that."

"Then, oh, it is a spell they did, yes, but there is a way around it. With the royal blood, the King's feather and the claw of the griffon, if you know how, if you know the way you can get through. But only when the winds are not there, no. The Prince must take his winds -- maybe to the West, yes, yes, in great anger he must summon all of them."

"The King's feather?" there was no way I could get something like that. I looked at the Count, but he merely shrugged guiltily.

"Yes, yes, little pony, it has to be the King," the arimaspi repeated impatient with my slowness. "The most proud one, he who sits on the leaden throne unopposed, he who wields the power, it has to be him. Bring me the claw and the feather, and I shall give you the Prince's blood and I'll teach you how to defeat the spell, yes, yes I will."

"But..."

He inclined his head, listening to something I could not hear.

"Go, little ponies mine, yes, leave now. Do as I say, yes, find a way to enter the cave of Boreas. I have the blood, yes, I still have the royal blood, hidden safely in my veins, but you will find the King's feather and the griffon claw, and then you'll bring me the Idol. Then you may live, yes, only then will I release the spell.” His horns flashed green and the prison door swung open. “And remember--" another flash, green and black, made my magic rip from in my chest with the dull stab of cold, throbbing pain, just as Count by my side grit his teeth as well. "-- I own you now, yes, yes, I do."

The Count had helped me to his room, guiding both of us through the spider's web of servant's passages and secret doors.

"Here." After I was seated, he produced a small porcelain bottle from within his suit. "Drink this."

Cold tea, weak and sweetened to death with honey. Only when I felt the sugar on my tongue did I realise how impossibly hungry I was.

"Cold and hunger are the first signs of magical depletion." He levitated a blanket to my shoulders as I drank. "You may not have felt it yet, but your body has been quite drained of it's magic by that creature. You should eat plenty of sweets today, and find some mandrake root tomorrow, Miss Shimmer -- you would probably not be able to hold it down today."

I glared. I knew how to treat magical exhaustion.

He turned away, digging through some compartment of a nearby cupboard for something, turning his back to me. I tensed, feeling for my magic.

Even drained and hurt and yes -- still poisoned, I could overpower the posh little lordling, take the scroll I saw him put away, and then--

"Miss Shimmer," he didn't turn away from his cupboard, "think it through."

That was the rub. I could take the lordling, but then -- there was no then. Not even a heroic last stand. I fell back into my chair and tried very hard to suppress another glare when he returned, with another cup of tea.

He sighed a tired sigh of an adult faced with an unreasonable child and cast a spell.

It was a complex weave, I appreciated, especially for one cast this quickly. It spread from the markings on the floor and things scattered around his room, and skittered up the walls, sparkling where it encountered any other magics, encompassing us in a shimmering dome of golden light. At the top, in the middle of the ceiling, where waves of magic met each other, a bush of roses bloomed out of the stone, their scent filling the room.

"Now we can talk. Whoever is listening will hear something else."

That was a strange thing to do. Who would be listening to us?

"I have told you before, Miss Shimmer, when you weren't inclined to listen -- there are dogs in this castle, and then there are dogs. And they serve different masters."

"The dogs serve the arimaspi?"

"Yes. Glad you caught up."

I should have known -- I should have realized. The dogs, they served Ahuizotl once, long ago, and to this day they feared him, with old fear and worshipped him with the same dull loyalty any oft-beaten dog has for its owner-- and they would serve the arimaspi just as readily.

But if the Count was unwilling to talk in the presence of the dogs, it meant--

"We shall not be delivering the Idol to arimaspi," he said, once he was sure I was listening. "That is not why I brought you into this mess."

"You?!"

"Contrary to what our common new friend believes, you were not chosen by that creature on his own. I have chosen you -- not because of your talents, Miss Shimmer, nor your closeness to the Princes. I needed an ally, someone I could trust in this game. Someone capable of drastic measures."

"And that's why you betrayed me to that creature?!"

He sighed again and took a dainty sniff from my snuffbox.

"I have given you all the subtle guidance, all the warnings that I could, but if we are to work together, the arimaspi must think that you’re working for him. Otherwise - well, he has me in his grasp at least as much as he has you."

"What about the other delegation ponies? Why me?"

He reached for a needle and stitches - and of course, he had both at hoof - starting to clean up my wounds, careful and skilled as he stitched up my lip and applied the healing charms.

"Childish slaves of social rules," he scoffed. "They will be stuck in politicking and begging, appealing and appeasing. Given time they may have achieved something with the King and Princes but time is not something we have. And they cannot help me out of my predicament with the creature. I need someone less restricted in her choice of actions, so, eenie, meenie, minie, mo —I choose you."

I couldn't argue with that.

"Why'd you stop me then?" I asked, soon as he took the needle off my face.

"Well," the Count said reasonably, packing his implements away, "For one thing, if I didn’t I'd be dead."

"So you're not just a traitor, you're a coward as well. You should've taken your own poison." I declared, throwing the blanket off. "Living instead of achieving your goal is nothing but cowardice!"

"And to die without gaining one's aim is a dog's death and fanaticism!" Count countered, "I too have read those books, Miss Shimmer, but this isn't one of the olden pony stories. Victory matters, and my death or yours would not have helped anypony."

"I had him! And then there would not be any war!" It was a screaming match now, and I could scream just as well as any Canterlot lordling.

“You would have failed, you insufferable child! You had nothing!”

“I just needed to talk to the convocation!”

"Well maybe go and talk to them, then, and then both of us will be bloody dead!"

“Well, maybe I will!”

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

We both glared at each other, until he turned away and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Let's make a deal, Miss Shimmer,” he offered tiredly. “If you listen to me tomorrow, and we get the arimaspi off our backs for a bit, I will give you back that scroll to bring into the Convocation of Eagles, and you can say your piece, whatever the consequences may be."

"Even though that means you will die?"

"I’d rather not. And if I’m right and your plan won’t work, I won’t have to. But if you’re right, and it stops the war -- Equestria is worth dying for." He said it simply, like stating an obvious fact. "The Princess is worth dying for."

Perhaps there still was something in the Canterlot nobility that redeemed their titles after all.

"How can I trust you?" I asked warily. "Unless you swear."

He looked at me curiously.

"The Old way," I specified. That oath nopony would be stupid enough to break, even on the pain of death. “So that you can’t back out.”

"I had no intention of—"

"Swear!" I demanded. "Or no deal."

He hesitated, and then he said the words, and the words were heard and could not be unsaid any more.

I nodded. I would not take action against the lordling — not yet. We were on the same side after all, and just as the shield on his wall said, the same Sun was above the both of us. But I would be in no hurry to turn my back to him, and nothing was forgotten -- or forgiven.

Here are no leaders to lead us to honour, and yet with out leaders we sally,
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugle we rally
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!
[i]Fall in! O fall in! O fall in![/i]

Fancy Pants, Count Hoofington
Spies' March