Forelock Holmes beheld The Doctor and contemplated the clues his bearing presented: Muffin crumbs from a recent meal, blond hair from the grey mare at his side, one Ditzy Doo, hooves dusted by the mysterious powder from the cellar entrance above. Additionally, reddish sand in his coat and mane. Had he rushed here from a previous engagement?
“Rushed, Doctor? Do you often visit deserts?” Forelock began.
“Deserts? Well … I must have … when was …”
“Doctor,” Ditzy interjected. He turned and smiled at her. “That’s where we went for the berries. Z-zebes, no, that wasn’t it, but it was like that. Ah, oh hay, yeah! It was Zenebria.”
“Who is your lovely companion this time, Doctor?” Forelock pranced slightly, showing uncommon fancy.
This … time? Ditzy thought, crestfallen.
“Forelock Holmes, meet Derpy Hooves,” The Doctor announced the unwitting slight of an unwanted nickname. The indignity of his insult – however unintentional – to her ball dress had not been forgotten, and now she learned he had other companions in his past. The thought had never once entered her mind.
“It’s Ditzy Doo. My name is Ditzy Doo,” she corrected, gritting her teeth in The Doctor’s direction.
“I think ‘Derpy’ is quite charming,” The Doctor insisted sweetly.
“I don’t care what you think, Doctor!” she snapped, eyes blinked to focus on him, emotions lashing tongues of fire in her yellow pupils. “I don’t call you Doc, or The Doc, My Little Docky, or Mumble Twitch, but maybe I should! I don’t know about your name anyway! The Doctor? Just ‘Doctor’? Who are you, anyway?!”
“I’m sorry, Der … uh … Ditzy, but I can’t tell you that.” The Doctor knew his answer was completely ineffective, but the burden of knowledge could well destroy her. He cherished her too much to take that risk, and was determined she was unprepared for those words.
“Why not?” she demanded, breaking the barrier of his personal space.
“I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t. It’s much too soon, and far too complicated. Your life is …” he stopped short. “You must understand. I am sorry.”
My life is what? “I don’t understand! What do you mean ‘your life’?” This was disheartening, but he was so intent, so sincere. How could she doubt him? Yet she was not satisfied. “If you can’t tell me now, then when? Will you tell me?”
“No, I can’t,” he stated, unflinching eye contact aggravating her once again. How could he be so bold and indifferent, yet passionate at once? She was more hurt than angry. Something inside, the want for love, the desire for his attention, compelled her to be patient.
Forelock, meanwhile, had used the opportunity to observe. He did not understand why The Doctor had selected this companion, but he recognized the vital tenacity of her independent personality. She was self-sacrificing and compassionate. He mused, the decibels of ones temper does not the extent of empathy communicate.
Meanwhile, Summer Shire and Light Seeker had departed with Shattering Blight in tow to transport him to a holding cell, not far from their location. Forelock had quietly requested that Brazen Heart remain for safety sake. Forelock had work to do.
“My dear,” Forelock’s voice was as smooth and lustrous as his midnight tint mane, and the effect eased her temper considerably, just as he intended it to. He cantered forward so he could take her hoof with a bow. “Ditzy Doo, it is my pleasure to meet such a lovely filly on the night of the Galloping Gala. Welcome to Canterlot.”
Ditzy turned scarlet red from maneline to the base of her neck and muttered “Thank you.”
“Can you tell me how long Shattering Blight has been in Canterlot?” Forelock’s head was angled so that the recipient of the question was not clear. The Doctor assumed it was he:
“No more th-”
“I was asking Ditzy,” he interrupted curtly. “Before you wonder why I asked, tell me what you know of mail delivery in the palace.”
Ditzy’s face lit up with delight. “I know all about this! Before I tell you, what are you asking me? There’s so much to know. I can tell you how many seconds it takes a Pegasus to deliver a letter from the ground floor to Celestia’s throne room, or between floors, or—”
“Shattering … no, better to call him Blight, I suppose. Ominous. No matter. I need to know how long it would take a letter to reach the cellar door of this chamber from anywhere in Canterlot. The absolute minimum amount of time if flown, then, if run by earth pony.”
Ditzy’s eyes crossed again as she tilted her head upward and began to pace. Shortly afterward she performed a neat leap and caught herself in the air with a flit of wing. Hanging there as though suspended by string, she churned the scenarios in her head for accurate times.
“That was brilliant,” The Doctor breathed. “How did you do that?”
“Pegasus walk on clouds, don’t you know?” she replied, matter of fact. “Mr. Holmes—”
“Forelock, please,” he invited with a solicitous tone.
Ditzy smiled smugly. “Okay, Forelock. A flying pony couldn’t take longer than a fives minutes from the border of Canterlot to reach that door up there. But a running pony would take way longer. At least fifteen minutes.” Ditzy continued to hover serenely.
Forelock had to quantify a point: “Are those figures based on the speed of the average pony?”
“Course not. Those are based on the slowest recorded fliers and runners in Equestrian history. Do you want the fastest numbers? Rainbow Dash is fast, but she’s no mailmare. I can factor in weather too. Rain can slow you down a lot, and it can be bad if it’s too hot and dry. Then there’s cold, or stormy conditions. How about hail? I’ve flown in lightning storms. Would you like me to change the times for any of those?”
“No, I thank you deeply, Ditzy. The wax seal was still warm when we found it, which means it was delivered from very near here, but not directly through the cellar door.” Forelock fixed his eyes on The Doctor. “You said Blight hadn’t been here more than a week. Was that an exact figure?”
“No. His equipment was such rot that he was gambling his life every time he used it. I’ve never seen that kind dimensional separation before, but by the way his body was leeching sulphur, he would have died within a week. There was more to his condition, but I don’t know what, and I’m not entirely convinced it’s important.”
“Sulphur is a primary component of all living things. He should have died instantly. How was he staying alive?”
“That’s not question we can answer over tea and cupcakes,” The Doctor intoned dramatically. “He’s not your average pony, I promise you that.”
“He had a rather queer cutie mark,” Forelock reflected. “A planet split in two pieces with the core missing. Presumably stolen or consumed. What does that say about his special talent?”
“Nothing you’ll ever worry about.” A heavy bass vocal thundered decibels above the four ponies, bringing their attention to its owner. Brazen Heart lay heaped at its feet, clawed evidence of the intruder hanging over his body. Forelock noted that he breathed, though he had been wounded. No telling how badly, obscured as he was.
The creature was a haphazard beast; angular dragon head, barrel chested pony body, spiny whip style tail, and three-clawed forelegs. Massive hind legs gave the impression of remarkable leaping strength. Its body was covered in glossy crimson-silver scales with yellow-white spines travelling in a line from its horned head directly to tail tip. Thin lips were pulled up to reveal pearl-bright teeth meant to chew flesh.
“Doctor …” Ditzy whimpered, backing into him slowly. He braced her with his forehooves.
“Sssh,” he whispered. So this is the fellow who damaged the stairwell. Let’s see what he’s about. “I’m The Doctor. Who are you?”
“Blackpool, since you ask. ‘The Doctor’? I’m supposed to eat you,” explained the fellow rather congenially. “Come here. I’ve never had Time Lord before.”
“Do you eat a lot of ponies?” ventured the The Doctor, fumbling for his sonic scre
wdriver behind the concealment of Ditzy.
“Come to think of it? Nope. You’ll be the first.” With that, Blackpool made a grab with his large claw at his head. He came up empty and frowned distinctly at his empty talon. “You’re not making this very easy.”
“Easy isn’t any fun. Would you like to be eaten?” The Doctor bantered, shoving Ditzy away from him as Blackpool reached again.
“I wager you’re right about that. Me? Eaten? Don’t know, I’ve not been at this very long. How ‘bout your friend? I’ll just eat her instead.”
“Oh but I’m no foal. Your orders are to eat me. You’d eat her, then eat me afterward.” The Doctor’s words made Ditzy’s head spin. He’s serious! He’s absolutely bonkers! She thought. Forelock was nowhere to be seen. What was he hiding behind, and how had he snuck away so easily?
“You’re right. I don’t think I’ll be able to stop, once I start.”
The Doctor had to give him a chance. There’s a chance Blight had a hand in your hunger. “Look, I can tell you are an intelligent fellow, even if you’ve a large appetite. I have to be fair to you.”
Blackpool’s green pupil eyes became doubtful slits. “Fair? To me?”
The Doctor rose to his full height and locked eyes with the behemoth. “Completely. Every intelligent species deserves the opportunity to choose. So must you. These are intelligent, peace loving ponies. I won’t see them harmed.”
“I just want to eat you,” demurred Blackpool.
“Can’t let you do that, can I? Once I’m gone, who’s to stop you?”
“I’m flattered. Don’t you think the Princesses stand a chance?”
The Doctor considered his opponent’s words. They contributed to his theory that Blackpool was not always as he appeared. “Oh but they trust me completely. Blackpool, I warn you, if you do not surrender, I will have to stop you.”
“You can’t stop me. You’re just a pony. Live, prey.” The narrow slits became twin arcs of amusement. “This is as fun as he promised me it would be.”
Polite, but none too bright. Probably young, as well. “Fun because you’ve never frightened anyone before?”
“How do you know that? That was rude! Bah, if I think about it, I know you don’t care. I’m a monster, you’ll kill me. That’s what he said. All I have to do is eat you before you can stop me.” He was drooling, generous gobs of saliva splattering on the poor unconscious Brazen Heart at his feet.
“Stop! You don’t want to eat us,” The Doctor commanded. “You’re not yourself.”
“Stop getting into my head! I do want to eat you! I’m very hungry. I’m a terrible, ugly thing, and I’ll eat you all!” Blackpool roared, preparing to launch forward. The Doctor leaned close to Ditzy, who paid him close attention. He mouthed something at her, and she nodded.
“No need to wait,” he said, pointing his sonic screwdriver at a grey pipe and switching it on. A grating whine was heard, then an explosive release of boiling hot water blasted steaming into Blackpool’s face. Catapulted into the opposite wall with a resounding thud, his large body folded into three sections, inert.
His large form began to shrink, assuming the proportions of a stocky, yet average sized earth pony. The Doctor dashed to his side and shined his sonic screwdriver at vital parts of his neck and head. He stopped, sharing a relieved sigh with Ditzy.
“Doctor, that’s one of Luna’s guards! He’s badly injured,” she said of the scars all long his side.
“Shattering Blight was once a very formidable genetic engineer. Well, he wasn’t known as Shattering Blight then. He was called Jesper Vallade. You wouldn’t know that name, but this confirms the rumors about him. He’s gloved his hands in the blood wrung from many souls. Hands, when he had them, not hooves. Looks like this is the most devilish of his work, though. Knows a few things about time and dimension travel, too. Thought he had no ship, but he’s here, and that means he’s got one. Got to find it!”
Ditzy glared at him, annoyed by his driftiness. “I said ‘he’s badly injured’!”
“Nonsense. Look at those. They’re scars. Savage healing, but fast. Take more than an arrow through the heart to take him down. Oh never mind. He’s a mess, I’m sorry, Der-” he paused, accepting the sharp regard of his companion. “Ditzy, yes. Of course. Anyway, he’s got something of a Jeykl and Hyde syndrome now, poor fellow.”
Ditzy exhaled sympathetically. “Isn’t there anything we can do for him?”
“No, but magic might help. Your Princess Celestia has a healing horn, hasn’t she? Worth a try. Oh, there we go, Brazen’s coming ‘round.”
Ditzy was quick to his aid, finding that he had only minor bruises. He got to his hooves with just a stagger while she explained to him what had happened. The Doctor had returned to Blight’s scientific equipment, meanwhile.
“Thank you Ditzy. You’ve a very gentle hoof,” he grunted. “That brute snuck up behind me, don’t know how he did. Must have been four heads taller than me. I don’t get it, he could have snapped my neck, but he didn’t even dent my helmet. Now … wait. Bumble? Yes! That’s him! Oh shards he looks a mess.”
“What? He said his name was Blackpool,” she responded quizzically.
“Yes! Bumble Blackpool. Don’t tell him I told you his first name. He doesn’t like anyone to know. Doesn’t jibe with his image,” Brazen chuckled. “He’s got to be scary and impressive for Princess Luna. It’s in the job description.”
“Ah, so here’s where he went.” Ditzy and Brazen swiveled toward The Doctor, half behind a white machine resembling a dishwasher.
“Where who went?”
“Forelock Holmes,” Ditzy explained. “What have you found, Doctor?”
He stepped back asked for assistance moving the machine aside. One good shove sent the unit halfway across the room. It was on wheels. The Doctor grinned unabashedly. “Fancy that. Wheels. Anyway, look at that passageway. Holmes must have deduced its purpose. Ditzy, will you stay with Brazen? I’m going to follow him.”
“Oh no you’re not! Not alone! Brazen can take care of Bumble,” she retorted, stomping a hoof. “Forelock’s not in any danger. If he is, why not send Brazen, anyway?”
“Oh you’re going to be some trouble about this, are you? We’re no closer to—”
“Hello.” The Doctor, Ditzy and Brazen sucked wind, eyes drawn to the pony-sized passage, aforementioned. Forelock Holmes dominated the opening, glowering expectantly at the party. “I see you’ve not followed me, but there’s no reason to now. Whatever was in the room at the other end of this tunnel is long departed.”
“Not far, is it,” The Doctor queried.
“Just a trot. Care to see?”
“No time like the present. After you.”
Ditzy sighed. “I’ll stay with Brazen and Bumble.”
“That’s a good filly. We’ll be right back.”
Ditzy blinked, annoyed, but not absolutely certain which of the two had spoken, not that it mattered. With that resolved, the pair disappeared into the circular tunnel. Ditzy returned to Bumble’s side. “I wonder if he’ll turn back into that monster when he wakes up.”
“Probably. Do you want to find out? We’d probably better get a healing pony. I’ll contact Luna.” Ditzy watched as Brazen closed his eyes, brow creasing with effort. Momentarily distress crept into his features. “Something’s wrong. I can’t reach her.”
“Why not?” she bleated, not quite hearing him. Bumble’s shallow breathing concerned her.
“I don’t know! It’s like she’s not there!”
The Doctor carried his sonic screwdriver in his mouth, occasionally shining it at suspicious puddles and leaks in the tunnel walls. The metal was nothing like he had seen in Equestria before, having a manufactured appearance with a two-tone cross hatched texture and blue colorization. This continued into the space that opened at the opposite end, a featureless rectangular room designed to conceal its true purpose.
“So now we’re here, what does Blight want us to find?” Foreloc
k Holmes observed.
“Agreed. I don’t believe he was too weak to undo his work and leave this here for us.” The Doctor nodded at Forelock. Scanning the walls was tedious, but even seamless walls had their secrets. The sonics’ wavelength increased pitch at an eye level portion of wall. “Bingo.”
Another concentrated burst of energy from the sonic screwdriver caused a section of the wall to recede in all directions at once, revealing a square computer interface screen. Pictured were numerous points of multicoloured light, darkened in the middle by a circle pulsing from black to faint blue.
Forelock regarded the image, not comprehending the technology, but in turn not questioning it. The patterns upon the surface of the sphere were familiar … “The moon. Doctor, that’s our moon.”
“Yes it is, Forelock, and it looks like it’s dying.”
Whispered War
Changelings. Their power, insurmountable, came to naught against the might of one young Changeling’s will. While unnamed, thousands rallied to her side, dark of coat and smouldering of eye. Sheltered in the influence of her hatred of all light and good, Chrysalis found her voice and the aid of a young colt who had fallen in love with her.
Drawing incomparable strength from his devotion, she lead her people to victory on the shores of Gaitswain Lake. An early Equestrian settlement unprepared for a literal swarm of green winged Changelings. Yet, Chrysalis was hesitant to rely on force as her sole means of victory.
She had discovered that many of her kin could imitate the appearance, voice, and manner of ‘the Equestrian’ enemy. Biding her time, she dispatched those with sufficient talent to acquire allies by deception and other trickery.
Weaken the town and dwindle their numbers, she commanded.
In the autumn chill, the ponies of Gaitswain struggled to store food and hunker down for the harsh cold. Not days before the attack many loved ones had disappeared, softening the resolve of the townsfolk and burning away their morale. Chrysalis ordered the attack.
The sea-side town fell quickly to the unexpected assault, one late day in the middle of September. Swift as a tornado and brutal as a tsunami, all but Chrysalis’ own love was ruined, sprawled out on the charred landscape. By morning it was over. Nopony learned of Gaitswain’s fall, for visitors could not distinguish a Changeling enemy from ally by appearance alone. Damage to the town was easily blamed on local weather and the foalish stallion who believed he was the portent.
‘I’ll do it, you can’t stop me! I’m gonna press it!’
The charade continued while the Changelings fared the winter with ease, storing reserves and preparing larger conquests. During the warmer months, they bewitched the hearts of more ponies come from afar as tourists and vacationers. Chrysalis rejoiced as her magic increased and the enemy swayed to her whim. Then she made a fatal mistake: She turned her beloved away. His guilty conscience had arisen and he had no desire to be a part of her designs for Equestria.
Betrayed and heartbroken, Grave Livingstone fled to Canterlot. His voice cried warning throughout the city, and Celestia’s ear was pricked. She had him brought to her throne room and entertained his every word, for she recognized the spawn of Discord’s vengeance. However, evidence had to be provided before she could mobilize her forces and face the consequence of panic spread throughout Equestria.
The peace of the land was not to be broken on the word of a lone, likely unstable, colt. Unfortunately, while Celestia brooded over her next move, the Changelings struck Ponyville. Her response was swift:
‘To war.’
Her commands were clear as the midday sky: Under the cover of night, her greatest warriors departed Canterlot with all due haste to fend off the attack. All care was taken to ensure that knowledge of the event was kept to a minimum. A sphere of silence was erected over the battlefield, and a visual barrier to prevent others from becoming involved. Quietly, talented ponies from around Equestria were drafted into the defence force.
Fortunately Ponyville had an ace up its sleeve; the Patriarch of the Apple family. He spotted the incoming Changeling forces and with his family rallied every able bodied colt to defend their home town. If not for this, Ponyville would certainly have been razed to the ground. Then, reinforcements from Canterlot turned the tide and pushed the Changelings beyond the borders of the Everfree Forest.
Fort Shatterhoof was built in the subsequent months shortly after the camps were organized. Its name described the terrible, gritty circumstances in which the fort was constructed and the near ruin of the survivors-become-heros. The Changelings continued to fight, hindered but uninterested in anything less than ‘absolute destruction’. Little in those times was understood about Changelings, but if they could not be stopped, then Equestria itself could be consumed.
The irony of the Changeling homelands was that they existed on a solitary island with but a narrow bridge of land for mainland access. While the Changelings could fly, their range was limited. Chrysalis, then crowned Queen of the Changelings, had lost her greatest source of power. To satisfy her pride, she gave Grave the title ‘The Living Tombstone’ as a callous tribute.
The sheer numbers of the Changelings became their sole threat. Once across the land bridge, they were simply too numerous to repel. The alternative was to barricade them just outside of the Everfree Forest and contain their assaults at the Fort.
As the years wore on, Fort Shatterhoof became Celestia’s insurance policy on the peace of her country. Ponyville swore to provide the warriors, and quietly bore the strain of the prolonged conflict and the price it demanded:
Complete silence.
“So t’ this day, nary a soul knows ‘bout th’ Whispered War.”
Doctor John Trotson had never heard such a wild tale. The dual toned, green maned and coated pony grinning at him portraying an unlikely evidence of fact. Of course, the salt they had consumed made everything seem unlikely. Slouched over a table, John lifted his head, squared his shoulders and ordered two tall glasses of water.
Fun’s over. How does this ‘Whispered War’ connect to the threat against Princess Luna? Sun knows I took all this time to find this place, John thought, then gave a great belch. Forelock, what are you thinking, sending me here?
“Aw, that all? Sum kin’a light’oof, ‘re ya?” grunted John’s companion. The basement suite of the Prancing Pony was stuffy and dry, not to mention nearly unoccupied but for five ponies. John shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind.
The tink of glass on the thickly lacquered table afforded him an opportunity to replenish vital fluids and lucidity of thought. Gradually an awareness of the time of day piqued his annoyance at having wasted so many tens of minutes on so useless a lead.
Rubbish, Forelock could make sense of this. “I was told you had answers, not tales,” John snorted skeptically. “You’ve wasted my time. I’ll pay the bill and be on my way.”
“Hay, wait. Don’t go. Sit,” pleaded the colt. “Forelock’s a friend. Made ‘im a promise, I did.”
“I’m listening, Glaze. Talk to me,” John replied in measured way that made the colt consider his words. Forelock has many unlikely contacts. As unlikely as that yarn he just spun me.
Glaze scanned the room for ears angled at them. There were none. Two at the table in the far corner appeared immersed in a game of two-hoof rookie, speaking moderately about inane topics such as loans and mortgages. Taking mental note of this, John leaned forward, pressing this pigeon for his feed.
“Either you’ve got a word for me, or I trot.”
Glaring at the challenge, Glaze’s hard expression softened. “I see. ‘What ya got’ is it? Ears forward, friend. Do y’ gander th’ enemies of the twins? Not a week goes by wi’out a threat ‘gainst summit ‘r other up in the ‘lot. Se’ret service churns the butter ‘n flattens the hay, y’get me?”
“I’m thankful I understand your rough accent,” John muttered miserably. “All right, so what?”
“Tell me ya s’pose they’ve no wind of ‘em. Camo
n, my coltish. The royal-eh, fillies have ‘em all pinned. Dissidents ‘re eared for corn an’ eyed for th’ needle.” His slip of ‘royal’ momentarily attracted unwelcome ears, but following with nonsensical banter cooled any curiosity. The colt took a swig of water to widen the gap. “This ‘uns knot on their rope. Got it? They’d no wind, fair or foul. Old anger, right? Old as the whisper.”
Instantly John understood what he suggested. “Your word’s not enough. It was a long time ago, if what you’re saying is true.”
“Yeh? Vallade’s no mystery, no, not by any stretch. He’s old’r ‘n time. May be ‘e’s not from ‘round ‘ere, as folks are like t’say. Known well ‘mong circles, ‘specially when risky bits ‘re up ‘n th’ air,” he grinned, something more serious, almost dangerous. “What risk y’ think the twins’ll take t’break the silence? Won’t let it happen, mark ya that. Mark ya. Risky bits is fair game in anytown. Good business fo’ a savvy bloke.”
He is right, and the pieces just fit nicely, but what were the ends to the means? John raised his rear and reached into a pony pocket for some bits. “Thank you. You’ve been some help.”
“Oh,” chuckled the colt. “That ain’ all. Colt-o, ‘ave I got a site for your pie-dyed-eyes. A place, mind ya now. A place for a look-see.”
“Right then, we’d better hoof it without delay.”
As John Trotson laid out the bits for the salt and water, following Glaze out of the establishment, he was not surprised to hear the sound of two sets of hooves ending their repast, as well. A tickle along the back of his neck promised lots of excitement ahead. The shoulder sheath for his Sig Sorrel fit snugly under his shooting coat, and he was glad for it.
Glaze travelled casually, minding the midday afternoon sky with enough attention to interest John. They wove quickly through the main thoroughfare of Ponyville to a small cottage on the border of the Everfree Forest. A chill breeze wafted from the intimidating, ageless trees. Glaze chuckled again, that dangerous little noise he’d made back in the Prancing Pony.
Fluttershy lives here, Trotson noted, recognizing from photographs the red abode and the many animal habitats she kept. Glaze was half over a hill before he realized John had stopped following.
“Oy! Camon!” he snapped. “She’s not ‘ere. What ya figure they’re all doin’ the night o’ the Gala, wit royal invites? What’m I tellin’ ya for? You came ‘ere from Canterlot, anyhow. Quit yer lollygaggin’.”
No, that’s not it. That’s not why I stopped, but … he sighed at having his train of thought broken. “A moment, Glaze. Something isn’t right here.”
Glaze ‘tsked’ and scraped impatiently at the dirt. “Those thugs ‘re not far. Got ‘em lost an’ you’ll be pleased for it. Won’t take ‘m long t’ figure what we’re about, will it?”
“They know where we’re going?” John wondered.
“They’re Vallade’s colts. ‘Course they know.”
“So they are his thugs. I’ve a mind to wonder now where you’re taking us,” John began cautiously. “But I know you’ll not answer that.” What he had noticed sprang to mind: None of Fluttershy’s animals are here.
His meandering trail passed through some hedges, as if just to ruffle John’s mane, and over a narrow hill into a winding stand of saplings. Inside this was a strange looking door, attached to nothing. No, attached to air by some means he could not perceive, maybe not even understand. The silvery-blue affair had no hinges and stood as though rooted to the earth. Cursory examination revealed that it was not.
It’s not thick enough to balance upright, and there are no strings from which it might be hung. Is it magic? John’s curiosity was piqued. Glaze’s knowledge was proving to be worthwhile.
“Only one way in. We gots t’make ourselfs like we got scared’n gone. Can’t get that door t’budge, not with any skill ponies employ,” Glaze provided courteously.
“So that’s why you said there are rumours of him not being from here.” John listened for sign of Vallade’s colts, but heard nothing. Inky blackness stormed in his guts. Something’s wrong. They’re not following.
The door opened.
“The ‘ell!” Glaze cried, startled.
“The what?” John was interested in his language, which told him much about his character that intelligent conversation did not. What little intelligence there was, at this rate.
“Bell. The ‘bell’. Bells of Fort Shatterhoof. Camon. Let’s in with us.”
“Ah, of course. You first.”
John peered into the doorway which Glaze entered calmly. Somehow this was not reassuring. John followed, nonetheless. The room was a dome, red lit with black beams connecting at the ceiling providing a sense of structure. In the center was a white circle, to which his eye immediately was drawn. John suppressed a nervous shudder.
“What do you mean by ‘bells of Fort Shatterhoof’?” Conversation was the surest measure to stem the unease of the strange environment.
“Chrysalis, ‘fore she was Queen, ran up a shroud o’ darkness. Clouds like a storm. Couldn’t turn hair nor hide t’ tell where the Changelings’d ‘tack next, yeh? Skill a’ hers she figured’d waylay us, waitin’ on the fields ‘fore her t’ hit us.” Glaze was rambling against his own nerves, accent so thick John scarcely understood him. “Then come young’n with a trick, clever stallion. Summit Crier. Yeh. Summit found a bell breaks their control of weather. Who cares how he figured it? General Starshade plunked a big ol’ bell up in a tower, had it built so it rang every hour. Called th’ bell ‘Stormcracker’. Once Chrysalis twigged we got her trick, we eased up, but when y’ heard the ‘clang clang’ y’knew a legion o’ Changelin’s was on us.”
“You fought? You were there?”
Glaze grinned again, sorrow sheltered in his eyes. “Long time ago, t’was. Nopony carries away memories from th’ fightin’, John. I’m sorry.”
“What?” John’s body tensed, the inky black unfaded in his gut. The threat had not abated.
“Doctor John Trotson. Esteemed ally of Forelock Holmes,” echoed a voice from somewhere in the dark. “Welcome to my home in space.”
“Oh, ponyfeathers,” John breathed.
Uniconformity