Tower of the West

Chapters

Prologue
Seek and you shall Find
Don't judge a Book by its Cover
He that scatters thorns
Where the Sun Don't Shine
It's Curtains For You

Prologue

The sunlight streamed down through the trees leaving dappled patterns on the ground ahead. The soft swish of the treetops swaying in the cool breeze made the light dance and shift around his feet and helped lessen the feeling of stifling heat and sweat. He could hear birdsong, the buzz of insects, and in the far distance the faint tinkle of falling water: a stream rushing on by, perhaps a waterfall. A dark glow raised a bottle from his saddle-bags and dabbed a little of the cool liquid across his lips.

In this bright sunshine, the stallion's colouring stood out against the verdant green of the foliage. The high-collared viridian jacket and peaked cap helped somewhat, but the brass epaulettes and fixings twinkled as they caught the light, and his stark black coat stood out like an ink-blot on a fresh sheet of paper. Trailing down his flank, just shy of the saddlebags, three ragged lines ran through the hair, turned a light-grey colour that contrasted against his coat, like claw marks from some wild beast. Nothing else could be seen, hidden under the heavy brown fabric of the large panniers.

From under the cap, red and burnished gold spilled out like a sunset down his crest and forehead; while a single piercing blue eye burned from under it. On the left side a dull grey looked out dispassionately at the world. He trudged on through the undergrowth.

The gateway was tall. One had to wonder what would necessitate an opening you could fit an adolescent dragon through, when the path up to it could barely have accommodated a simple two-wheeled cart. Towers of crumbling stonework, rendered a sun-bleached white stood either side, with lit torches burning in rusted brackets. Two huge wooden gates with heavy metal stud-work and thick iron bindings lay partially open, inviting the weary traveller into a colourful and bustling marketplace where refreshment, excitement and rare treasures were proffered.

Vanner: city of merchants, caravans and goods-trains; ships and air-freighters converging on a lazy riverside town of two halves that had grown fat on the wealth of places so far away that the residents had not even heard of them. Or at least that was how it used to be. Now the city lay under siege a stone’s throw from a disputed border with the Gryffon lands. Only the surrounding impenetrable shield of monster-infested jungle had prevented a wholesale invasion; leaving the battle to take place on the river and in the air.

The stranger stepped under the arch and into the relative cool of the gateway and a guard arose from behind a fortified barrier, quickly and efficiently checking his travel papers to ensure that nothing was amiss. Entering the widening street, the dark pony made his way between the canopies and stalls that overhung the wide road, eyes flicking from side to side as he searched the shadows, rooftops and alleyways in constant vigilance. The street vendors yelled and called as they hawked their wares; the packed streets a miasma of dust, spices and sounds. The brilliant blues, reds and whites of the hoof-made tiles and decorations stood out from the brown ochre of the walls, the colours shimmering in the pure heat of Celestia’s sun.

Moving through the streets of the city, the tired traveller headed for the river; a light breeze flowing inland lifting his spirits as he finally spied his destination. It sat directly on the river, a large adobe building, ornamented with gilt rooves and a tall highly decorated tower that housed a large bell. He could hear it tolling the hour; calling the pious to prayers: the Llamasery of the ancient order of Saint Epona.

The locutory was at the front of the complex facing the river, and was afforded some protection from the blazing heat by a large verandah that ran the full length of the building. Wide open windows, their wooden louvred shutters thrown back, allowed cool river air to enter the room. Here the public could converse with the monks without disturbing their important ecclesiastical duties, whilst enjoying refreshment provided from the refectory. Many of the monasteries housed a library, but here there was none. Rather the reading materials were stored below in cellars where the temperature was more amenable to the preservation of the ancient parchments and scrolls. This space was dominated by lecterns and plain, heavy tables and it was to one of these that a ‘navaka’ carried a package wrapped in oilcloth. A tall, old llama looked at the new monk with a critical eye.

‘Set it on the table with care’, he said.

As the younger monk laid the package on the table and left the room, the older monk’s eye followed him out, then around until it came to rest on the strange visitor. The monk quirked an eyebrow, then set about meticulously unfolding the package. As the oilcloth fell away, a gruesome looking bundle came to view: rolled leather.

‘A hundred years sitting in a dark cellar, and here am I with this out on a table for the second time in as many days’, said the monk. ‘You’ll be wanting to see the Flayed Map then, Wrath?’

‘Oh, that I do, Quiet Word’, said Wrath. ‘That I do.’

Author's Note

A short story to test out an idea I had. A few short chapters only.

Seek and you shall Find

The shadows across the floor lengthened as dusk fell across the sky.

‘The Jibaro. A violent tribe of the Upper Melenan, who worshipped Nantu, the goddess in the moon. It is said that each month during the time of the moon’s darkness they would perform a ritual of renewal that required the blood of a living pony. In the inky black of the forest they would go hunting for a candidate, usually from other tribes.’

Quiet Word tapped his forehooves together softly.

‘When the Ibrearians conquered the Melenan tribes they were put to work harvesting the Melena nuts, from the husks of which could be concocted a powerful hallucinogen. The forests were replaced by plantations and the workers treated as little more than slaves. Little wonder that they rose up against their masters and since that time forward every adventurer, explorer and even travelling monk was a target. They took our brother many, many turns ago and flayed the skin from his back as a trophy.’

The monk carefully undid the binding and unrolled the pelt, showing the dark lines outlining rivers, towns and mountains. He waved across the map.

‘The six villages of the plantations. Outlined by a Coltuguese prisoner who managed to escape the tribe, and who passed on this map to a fellow believer once he returned to more... civilised climes. Few even know of the plantations’ existence: you are very fortunate.’

The soft whoosh of air and gentle hum of mana-engines overhead caught Wrath’s attention and he trotted over to the edge of the verandah. Looking up he spied a large airship making its way south-west across the river towards the city wall. There a house set into a tall tower guarded the western entrance to the city. Wrath turned back towards the monk.

‘There’s a lot of traffic for so early in the evening. Strange, though’, he said, indicating with a nod of his head across the river, ‘that the house over there has a light on.’

‘Indeed’, said the monk, ‘it contravenes the current regulations. The gryffons are very near the northern borders now. Lights out at dusk, or at least prevent it being seen.’

Wrath nickered. ‘It’s of no concern to me who follows regulations or not. But strange it is.’

‘Strange indeed’, the monk replied. ‘The Sylph in the Tower of the West, or so she is named by those in the city. A young Vanneran pegasus mare, crippled and unable to fly; she sits at the window to the tower playing beautiful melodies by wing on her harp.’

‘Hah, how romantic,’ said Wrath.

‘Being indoors so much, she is very well read’, said the monk, shrugging, ‘and sometimes her housekeeper takes her out on short journeys. She came here just the other day to see the map.

‘Oh? That’s interesting’, said Wrath, narrowing his eyes. ‘A pity the map isn’t complete...’

Quiet Word started back in surprise.

‘H-how...’ he stuttered, ‘how can that be?’

‘My good sir,’ said Wrath, digging into his panniers and handing over a small, heavy sack, ‘you have been most helpful. Consider this a... generous donation to the good brethren of the Llamasery of Saint Epona.’ He paused.

‘There is another town.’

The monk stood, silent; weighing the heavy sack in his hooves, listening to the small clink of bits as they jostled inside the rough hemp of the bag.

‘Might I suggest then, my friend’, said the monk, ‘that you perhaps take some time to visit old Mule Kimberwick. The Jackite fathers had missions up in the Melenan for many a year, and to some extent still hold influence over the area. Mule Kimberwick spent his youth with them. Perchance one of them passed on some information that could be of use to you.’

The bell started to toll again.

‘You must go now, Wrath. Speak with Mule Kimberwick in the clay pits district of the city.’ The monk turned and headed towards the door. ‘May the Sun be with you.’

As the older monk left, the younger monk from before came back into the room, moving to the table and starting to roll the map back into its protective cloth.

‘Return in a few days, Sir, and we will have a copy of the map for you’, he said.

Wrath nodded curtly and left the building.

The boatpony made his way slowly across the wide river towards the large central island; his strong twin oar-strokes pulling the narrow batella quickly across the water. Wrath leaned back against the cushioned seat and watched the moon dance across the wavelets whipped up by the strong river breeze. As they passed the mid-point, Wrath noticed another boat heading off at a tangent to theirs, towards the tower with the lighted window.

‘Well’, said the boatpony, ‘I been plying my trade cross this here river for countless years, an I know every boatpony on it. But I never done seen the likes of that there strange fashion of movina boat across the way. Tinna natural.’

Wrath nodded, sitting up and looking at the mystery boatpony. The figure was seated at the very stern, his weight lifting the bow clear of the water. Using a single oar he sculled the boat with a complicated looping stroke that seemed to account for both moving forward and correcting the yaw caused by rowing on only one side. Wrath mused upon this for a second, before closing his eyes and laying back to enjoy the rest of the ride. Hopefully they would reach their destination soon: it was getting late and he was starting to feel hungry.

No-one was exactly sure how long the Broken Snare had existed. It was a tall but sloping building, the tall pitched rooves tumbling down nearly to the street; their cracked tiles held up by thick twisted beams taken from the strong swamp oak. The white daub that filled the gaps was dirty and faded, giving the whole place an air of dilapidation and neglect. There wasn’t a straight wall in the place and the whole building slumped forward as if it were about to collapse on top of the unfortunates considering entry. The plaque above the door merely read ‘Est’. Considering how the dating system in the city seemed to change every couple of generations, had there have been a number affixed it probably wouldn’t have made much sense anyway. Besides which, the age was unimportant. What was important was its function.

Sitting near the dock on an island in the middle of the river made this ale-house a meeting place for many a weary adventurer, traveller or merchant. It was used by those wishing to exchange information and goods, and despite what you may have heard whispered amongst the better classes of folk; the drinks were good, the food hearty if basic, and the company was, if nothing else, interesting and on some nights, even entertaining. Unique amongst pubs, it bore the name of the establishment, but no picture. The meaning of its name now lost to the mists of time, numerous arguments had been made back and forth as to what it meant. But since no agreement had ever been forthcoming on what it ought to have been, the pub remained symboless.

It was to this pub that Wrath made his way, picking out his steps amongst the uneven cobblestones as he slipped towards the dim glow that suffused the light mist hanging in the air around the docks. Reaching the heavy wooden door, he pushed it open; a babble of cheery sounds spilling out into the quiet night, then cut off as quickly as it came. Wrath moved to the bar.

The barpony should’ve been a large rough looking gent with a grizzly muzzle and a dirty apron polishing a wood-hewn tankard. That is what the narrative said this sort of pub would have. But that’s not what you got at the Broken Snare. A slim, lithe pony was putting a skewered olive atop a complicated looking cocktail. His long dark blue mane fell across his withers, the burgundy stripes shifting against the muted cobalt of his coat. He had a Zebrican look around the eyes, and a smirk that played around his lips, which along with the dark freckles across his muzzle gave him a cheeky roguish look. He grinned at Wrath.

‘Long time no see’, said Black Thorn. ‘What can I get you?’

Wrath eyed the cocktail suspiciously. It was like that patch of leaves that just doesn’t sit right on a forest path. The ones which, if you were to tread on them, would result in a trip through the air and a role as lunch on somepony else’s menu. The word ‘incongruous’ sprang to mind, but then, when had his friend ever been anything else?

‘It was Canterlot last time’, Wrath replied, ‘and I’d rather the ale. Any. Decent. Ale’, he added, forestalling the list of local specialty beers, real ales, foreign lagers that weren’t ale at all, and any other option that could be added to an ever growing list designed purely to wear him down and make his drink seem further away. He looked at the disappointed barpony.

‘Fine. One without hops would be nice.’

Blackie drew a pint into a large stein and hoofed it over whilst adding the finishing touches to another drink with his telekinesis.

‘Since you’re here’, said Wrath, ‘tell me. What do you know of the “Sylph” in the tower at the west gate?’

‘An old family’, replied the barpony, ‘just her left now, a cripple. She plays music so I hear, and reads late at night. Any particular reason you asking?’

‘Not as such’, said Wrath. ‘Just thinking. I happened to notice the building on the way across the river.’

‘So, you noticed it too’, said a voice to his left. A tan coloured earth pony sat at the bar swirling an olive into his complicated cocktail.

‘Noticed what?’ said Wrath.

‘Allow me to introduce myself’, said the stranger. ‘Cool Pastures, Agister of the Lutum Forest Verders.’

‘Wrath.’

‘The lit window in the tower, late at night, past the curfew? You find it odd too?’

‘Heh. I don’t find much at all. I have other things on my mind.’

The stranger harrumphed. ‘I enquired at, shall we say, a level higher than my own; and it was strongly suggested that my well-being would continue should I not enquire anymore. So for now, I leave it be.’ The officer leant a little closer. ‘Our friend, the “Sylph” would appear to have... other friends.’

‘These things happen’, said Wrath, non-committally.

‘You’re not from around here, are you’, the officer replied, emphasising that it wasn’t a question.

‘I’m afraid not’, said Wrath, lightly.

‘May I ask why you’re here?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Wrath deadpanned. ‘But rest assured, my business here has nothing to do with your Sylph. Or your war.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ replied Cool Pastures. ‘I’d be sorry if it did.’

Author's Note

In which there was a light, and it was not good.

There was some great fun researching linguistics and making up names in this chapter.

Don't judge a Book by its Cover

Celestia's sun arose; another sweltering beautiful day. He had seen her once: breathtakingly beautiful, standing aloft on the ramparts of Canterlot castle as she lifted the massive orb into the sky. It was a dawn imprinted on his mind, of power and majesty standing alone against the world. Sometimes he felt he understood being alone a little.

Wrath stood at the open window and breathed in the cool river air. It was early, but he liked early. The docks that lay before the pub were clear of mist, and only a few Tars loitered about the area, loading cargo onto the wide barges. He trotted downstairs and into the morning light. As he crossed the path in front of the Broken Snare, a voice hailed him from the shadow beneath the eaves.

‘Off to the Clay Pits?’ said the Agister.

‘You don't miss much, do you?’ Wrath said drily.

‘I like the docks. Interesting things, they happen. Come. I have transport heading to the other side of the city. We will make good time.’

Wrath, figuring a free ride wasn't to be sniffed at, followed the earth pony.

The Loncastre sat at berth in the new airdocks built between two towers of a fort that overlooked the old river docks. She was modern, sleek and light. Expensive dark hardwood was reflected in the shining silver rails along the gunwales, and powerful twin mana-engines were slung aft. A large cannon sat in the bow atop a rotating mechanism, whilst other smaller versions lined the decks. The prow swept upwards into a beautiful figurehead of a midnight blue alicorn rearing, wings swept back along the ship and horn thrusting forward.

‘By Starswirl's beard’, exclaimed Wrath, ‘is that...’

‘The Agisters de Forest : an ancient order. Older than people think; we, at least, have not forgotten’, said the officer. ‘Besides, she’s beautiful, no?’

‘Like her sister,’ Wrath replied.

‘Not many, these days, know that,’ said Cool Pastures, his mouth drawn into a hard line.

There was a rise in the general noise level around the vessel as the crew winched down the gangway, until it rested against the platform on which the two stallions stood. They quickly boarded, then settled back near the helm whilst the gangway was brought back in. As soon as all was secured and ready, the Agister called out the heading, and the helmspony brought the engines to bear. The thrusters swung out into position, blades twirling in their enclosures as magic-enhanced, high pressure, liquefied gemstone was pumped through the devices. The engines created a haunting vorpal sound as they came up to speed, before settling down into the usual steady hum.

The craft swiftly moved out of port towards the east of the city. Below, the water sparkled gold in the sunlight and as they reached the far bank, the towers and minarets reached out as if to brush against the underside of the airship. Before long, they were approaching the cargo docks for the clay pits.

The two ponies left the airship and made their way down the tower and into the main street, where the air was stifling from the heat of the kilns and workshops.

‘Are you my new shadow?’ remarked Wrath, ‘I’d have thought you had better things to do.’

‘Ah well, we Vannerans are nothing if not sociable.’

‘And suspicious,’ Wrath retorted.

‘I have a little time to kill. But no… I’ll be in the “Saggar’s” over there,’ replied the Agister pointing at a café. ‘You may find me there or on board the Loncastre, after your trip… to Mule Kimberwick.’

‘You knew all along,’ stated Wrath.

‘Hmm,’ replied the officer, jauntily, before disappearing out of sight.

The clay pits were the working heart of the city, providing a source of tradeable commodity that had kindled the wealth of the city and built a trading empire that spanned Equestria. Even now, the nation’s best wares were created with Vanner clay. The ponies who lived in the potteries district of the city were down to earth, hard-working types, and unusually it was the case that all three types of pony worked together in the industry. From the earth ponies working in the clay pits and goods yards, to the unicorns who spun and twisted the clay into its intricate shapes, and the pegasi channelling the needed water or creating shining glazes in the super-hot kilns: it was a tight-knit community, with its own lingo, that looked after its own.

In the heart of this bustling community, taken in as if he were one of their own, lived Mule Kimberwick, a seasoned travelling friar who had spent time in the Upper Melenan. It was to he that Wrath had been directed for further information about his quest, and he picked his way carefully through the narrow streets, seeking out the small home in which the friar lived. Tucked behind a tall church, Wrath found a modest two storey building built into the courtyard wall. On the wall was inscribed the ‘Star of Magic’, the usual symbol for the Jackite fathers. He knocked on the door.

The door was answered by a very, very old mule.

The sporadic sounds of a large clock on the wall grated on Wrath’s nerves. The tick wasn’t always followed by a tock at a regular interval. Sometimes the beat came a little early, sometimes a little late, and sometimes it seemed like an eternity had passed before it made any sound at all. It appeared as if calculated to drive the listener mad, yet the face did indeed show the correct time of day. The room in which he sat appeared to be a study with a large bookshelf that filled an entire wall. A heavy table stood against another wall, while two stuffed chairs, one of which he occupied, hugged the small empty fireplace. Above the mantelpiece a severe looking gentlecolt peered down over what looked like horn-rimmed spectacles. A rather gruesome reminder of a past fashion for turning ones vanquished enemies into useful household items.

A shuffling sound from the doorway preceded the object of his visit, carrying a battered tea set on a silver tray. Mule Kimberwick set it down on the sturdy table before relaxing back into the other chair.
‘So, what brings you to my abode, Mr…”

‘Wrath. Just Wrath’, said the dark horse. ‘Quiet Word at the Llamasery suggested that you might be able to help with some information which I am finding a little difficulty in obtaining.’

‘Is that so?’ replied the mule. ‘Do help yourself to some tea; and I must say the custard creams are quite delicious.’

Wrath grinned, and helped himself to a cup of the hot spiced tea; and a biscuit. The cup appeared to be silver plate, very fancy but with some serious dents that suggested this tea set had been dragged across hill, vale, mountain and possibly even through swamp.

‘I went to see the Flayed Map, for information about the villages of the hidden Jibaro plantations of the Upper Melenan,’ said Wrath. ‘El Iluminado.’

‘And..?’

‘It shows the plantations and the six villages, but I think you know as well as I that there is a seventh’, said Wrath.

‘Cazador Misterio, perhaps some three hundred years ago, wrote a journal of his travels in the region’, said Kimberwick. ‘Fortunately he passed it on to the Jackite brethren, and I took the liberty of making a copy of the text before I left. It is perhaps not coincidence that merely a day or so ago I was visited by another asking about this very text?’

‘Oh?’ queried Wrath.

‘A young Vanneran mare, a pegasus, came with her servant. She did not fly, but came in an invalid carriage pushed by a servant. She too asked to see the journal.’

Mule Kimberwick put down his teacup and shuffled over to the large bookcase, leafing through the tomes as he searched for the one he wanted. He pulled out a thick book, the heavy parchment yellowed with age and, placing the book on the table, he hoofed through the pages.

‘The village you are looking for is San Arreos’, he continued, ‘there is a map showing its location just...’, his voice trailed off. ‘By Celestia’s mane, it’s gone!”

The old mule indicated at a place in the book where the page had clearly been torn out.

‘It must have been that crippled mare’, he declared.

Author's Note

The plot thickens...

He that scatters thorns

Wrath stood in the narrow hallway and thanked the mule for his time. Opening the heavy door with his telekenesis, he slipped out into the stifling heat and trotted off to complete some needed errands, trying to keep to the shadier avenues of the pottery district.

As he wandered along, slipping through the crowded streets, he contemplated what a crippled pegasus would want with the map of the seventh village. Entering a narrow alleyway, Wrath ducked under a low portico and pushed his way into a cool, dark store. The shop was more a covered space between the buildings, packed high with decorative carpets, old wood carvings and cases of strange trinkets.

‘Tesoro Perduto at your serv... ah. Wrath. You'll not be being after a nice rug then.’

‘Indeed Tesoro’, replied Wrath. ‘I’d like to pick your brains.’

As Wrath left the shop he noticed the sun was slipping down behind the skyline; the last few minutes of the waking day bleeding out across the sky in fiery reds and golds.

A howling noise pierced the dusk, the artificial wail rising and falling in waves through the previously still air.

‘By the Sun,’ Wrath exclaimed, ‘the air-raid sirens.'

He looked more intently into the fading light on the edge of the horizon. The sky was becoming increasingly black but he could make out the dark shapes of airships heading in from the North-West; the undersides of their envelopes lit by the dying rays of the sun.

Wrath started to run back to the docks, weaving and dodging his way through the cramped, narrow streets of Vanner as the city started to light up from the flames of falling ordnance hitting infrastructure. The airships could move far quicker than he, and it was barely a minute or two of running before the drone of engines was overhead and the impact of an explosive rocked the building he had just passed, showering the roadway with debris and broken glass.

The road finally opened out and Wrath recognised the street on which he was running. A few more turns brought him back towards the skydock and the gleaming brightwork of the docked Loncastre. The deck was a hive of activity, and the huge guns were firing flames across the sky at the interlopers. The engines were whirling at idle and the ramp was still attached to the docking platform.

Wrath launched himself up the tower and came to a gasping stop on board the ship.

‘Took your time’, said a nonplussed Cool Pastures, ‘but I thought I’d be waiting as we agreed.’

‘Ah, well,’ Wrath smirked, ‘I got a little lost on my way back: all look the same these streets.’

The Captain, having received the nod, yelled an order and the ramp fell away along with the mooring ropes. The engines spun up and screamed like banshees as the nimble craft angled steeply into the air, the force pushing Wrath against the deck as it lurched into the fray.

The great alicorn’s horn at the front of the ship seemed to pierce the clouds as the ship rose into the black; and the pegasi crew members leant out from rigging that ran up the sides of the envelope, ready to protect the fragile lifting mechanism from attack. The wind was howling as it streamed past and dark clouds seemed to be pouring in from all directions. Wrath turned to look at the Agister as a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.

‘The weather teams be mounting a little surprise of their own’, said the Agister, grinning.

The deckhooves started shifting more ordnance up from the stores to restock the guns which were swivelling on their brass rails, frantically wound on a pulley system that was taking orders from a grizzled looking lieutenant.

The sky above was ablaze with fire from the airships, powerful ground-based searchlights and flashes of lightning. The thunder roared nearly as loud as the cannon, as the clouds emptied their watery stores onto the burning buildings below. The winds were roaring past at odd angles and in strange storm patterns that threw the enemy ships off course.

As the Loncastre forged its way forward through the skies the lookout signalled to the captain. Off the starboard bow a small gryffon ship had left the main group and was trying to slip undetected down the river, its lights extinguished.

‘Follow at a safe distance’, growled the Captain, ‘I want to see what she's up to.’

The engines wound down to a steady hum, and the lights extinguished from forepeak to stern. The enemy ship led the way down the river, heading towards the western gate, sinking continually lower until it was just a few feet above the water. Watching through field glasses Wrath could see troops aboard handling a crate to the edge of the rail. It was pushed over and fell into the river with a splash. A number of gryffons flew down to join it as it resurfaced and began to push the now bobbing crate ashore.

A nudge from his side led Wrath to glance at the Agister.
‘It looks to me like the gate is open’, whispered Cool Pastures.
Sure enough, figures could be seen slipping in and out of the wide gate, handling more heavy crates.
‘Heh, and look’, noted Wrath, ‘no light at the tower. Fancy that.’

With the mysterious crate offloaded and ashore, the gryffon troops reboarded their airship which started to lift and turn about face. As the ship rose the clouds parted a brief moment and the moonlight sparkled off the Loncastre's brightwork.

‘Damned to Tartarus....’, swore the Captain as the ship opposite, currently broadside, opened up its guns. ‘All about!’ yelled the lieutenant, all pretence at running silent gone. ‘Fire!’

The sky lit up as the airship heeled, skewing itself around, partially blocking the fire with the reinforced iron hull. The clang of metal on metal rang through the air and the forward gun spewed fire as it pivoted to keep track of the enemy.

The pegasi left hold on the rigging and launched into the air, forming a pattern and readying their weapons as numerous gryffons took wing and headed towards the ship.

Cool Pastures hauled himself to the centre of the airship and motioned to Wrath to join him at a large capstan. The Agister touched a mechanism, the bars folded out, and the officer mouthed a word through the clamorous air.

Both ponies pushed hard against the bars, straining against the deck to turn the heavy machinery. The centre of the capstan started to raise up high, a guttural clunking accompanying the effort. The recoiling guns filled the air with noise and smoke; the clink of mana cartridges.

As the airship pitched and rolled they both struggled to continue in the heavy rain against the slick decking. Another crew member pulled his way across to the device and helped turn the heavy capstan. The middle section finally reached its upper limit and, releasing from engagement, fell down towards the bottom of the hull.

A pulse of compressed air rippled out from the underside of the vessel; pegasi and gryffons, fighting in the air above momentarily stopped before continuing their battle. Signals from distant Vannan ships flashed in response, and a guttural roar was heard outside the city walls.

The gryffon ship opposite fired a broadside at The Loncastre. Heavy iron balls screamed through the air striking the decks and rails as the ship slewed about. Wrath dropped to the deck as one flew through the space where his head had just been, smashing through the upper wheelhouse behind him. The lieutenant yelled down to the deck below as deckhooves ran to pony the lower wheelhouse.

Amidst the confusion, noise and affray, Cool Pastures stood staunch, a hoof braced against the capstan. His eyes roved across the scene unfolding before him. As a low pitched whine issued from the engines of the enemy ship, his mouth hardened into a thin line, his eyes resting on the embodiment of his Princess at the bow.

‘Are you thinking what I'm thinking’, yelled Wrath.

Cool Pastures looked across at Wrath with a glint in his eye.

‘Ramming speed!’ he roared.

Author's Note

Woohoo, this was a tough chapter, but here it is!

Where the Sun Don't Shine

The lieutenant shouted down the order for ‘Overdrive’ to the engine room and in response the engines started to howl. The steady hum turned to a vorpal whine, a thunderous boom and then a torturous scream as the blades spun faster and faster, the patterns on the front morphing into shapes that made your eyes hurt. There was an odd taste in the air, flashes of octarine and strange runic patterns flickering on your retinas even through closed eyelids.

Smoke pouring off the mana-engine nacelles, the entire ship thrust itself forwards like a bolt from a crossbow, Wrath nearly losing his footing at the sudden turn of speed. Lightning crackled along the gunwales as the ship slung itself hard about under the ministrations of the flight master as the long horn of Luna pointed towards the gryffon airship.

Wrath grinned to himself as he hauled himself along the sloping deck trying to keep himself below the total chaos in the air above as pegasus fought gryffon in a fast-paced aerial battle. Lightning flashed, and the rain pelted down as combat pegasi and weather ponies used the very forces of nature against their enemies. His goal sat at the front of the Loncastre; currently unstallioned due to an unfortunately accurate shot from the other side, but about to be stallioned very hard by one very ticked stallion.

Wrath crawled the last few feet to the spectacular mounted gun on the forecastle of the ship. A picture of shining silver, capped with huge control wheels, the fore-cannon could be swung nearly 180 degrees across the front of the ship and nearly 70 degrees in pitch. The gun was in its natural dead-forward position above the figurehead.

Wrath grinned.

Slipping into the control seat he released the safety catch and fired. Smoke and arcane fire poured out of the mouth of the weapon as superheated shards of crystal flew towards the enemy ship in an expanding cloud of light and sound. These new ‘fire workings’ were a thing to be seen; and the gryffon were getting to see them first hand.

The shards ripped through the side of the enemy ship, bursting into flame on contact and pulverising the wooden planks of the ship to splinters. As the Loncastre sped towards the other ship he could see it attempting to manoeuvre as the opposing captain suddenly realised their intent. Twirling the control wheels he turned the cannon to port and aimed for the wheelhouse and lower cabin watching as the steady stream of fire ate into the control mechanisms of the other vessel.

A sudden shudder running through the entire airship caught him off-guard and the pitch wheel span from his grasp whirling as the entire gun pitched upwards in response to the Loncastre dipping down as they approached the side of the other ship. The stream fired up and into the envelope of the other vessel setting alight the fabric and cutting through support cables. The enemy fired one last broadside, but it was too late.

Wrath braced himself as he screamed.

The great spiraled horn of Princess Luna met the bulk of the opposing ship’s side and slammed right through the outer shell; with a tremendous ear-splitting crunch the figurehead ploughed right into the innermost part of the ship along with the forecastle. The metal brightwork screeched as it was torn from its mounts and crumpled against the ragged hole left in the side of the other ship. Wrath’s huge gun, about to impact the deck, but still firing, cut a swath through the woodwork and came to rest against their bell tower. Wrath released the trigger and watched the envelope deflating above him.

Everypony had stopped, not a pony or gryffon on deck was moving, but stood where they had braced for impact.

‘Stick that where the Sun don’t shine’, a voice yelled, before Wrath realised it was his.

Suddenly everypony was moving, and a number of deckhooves raced forwards to his position to counter the invading gryffon crew. A huge bloody gryffon leapt in front of him, only to receive a buck from his hind hooves as Wrath spun out of his seat and onto what was left of the forecastle deck. As the gryffon dropped, Wrath rolled and spun his way through the driving rain and across the slick deck.

Behind Wrath the flames crept across the stricken ship bathing the scene in a blood red glow. All of a sudden a scream came from the sundered deck as a young gryffon leapt through the air towards the Loncastre, speeding his way low across the forecastle and onto the main deck.

‘The magazine…!’ he screamed, still moving.

There was a split second pause between an enormous fireball erupting and the sound of thoom. The enemy ship came apart at the seams as the front end of the Loncastre buckled under a wall of fire.

Wrath was still running towards the stern when he felt the heat behind him. Meeting the Agister midway, they both caught each other’s eye, turned aside and dove off the ship into the inky black waters below. As he fell, Wrath could see the fore-cannon explode in an arc of white fire that took out the envelope above, and both ships, their remains lighting the sky like the depths of hell, plummeted towards him.

Wrath’s horn lit as he struggled to slow his descent towards the dark cold water. Hitting it from this height wasn’t going to do anyone any good. He looked over to his right and saw the Agister spinning through the air, where it registered to the rest of his brain that his new found friend was not a unicorn or a pegasus.

Extending his field to envelop the both of them, Wrath, tired from his ordeal, found the extra weight increasing their speed towards the water compared to his previous slower rate.

‘This is probably going to hurt a little’, he yelled.

Wrath had managed a little latitudinal movement as they had fallen, and they were now closer to the shore of the river and not immediately under the wreckage as great chunks of burning ship fell out the sky. The entangled mess had just hit the water, throwing up great clouds of steam as it settled low into the river. Pegasi had grabbed other crew members, and unicorns were making poor landings in the cold water much like they had. Not everyone had made it, and there was still fighting in the skies above.

Their landing had been rather unpleasant as foreseen, and from the sounds emanating from Cool Pastures there was a severely sprained leg even at best prognosis. Wrath, a good swimmer, dragged the Agister through the water and towards the reed beds that lined the shore, trying to avoid being noticed by the enemy.

After a fair few minutes swimming in the river, the two made it to the muddy banks where Wrath staggered ashore with the Agister slung over his back. Dropping him behind some decent cover, he leaned over whispering conspiratorially,

‘I’m going to take a look inside the tower. Try to keep out of sight, and wait for some more of your crew to get ashore.’

‘Don’t be doing anything stupid’, whispered the Agister back, drawing a small portable crossbow from his saddlebags, ‘and don’t forget… the gates are open.’

Author's Note

Well, progress is slow going with all the other work I have to do... but here is another exciting installment of Tower of the West - and this is an extra super action-packed chapter too! I really wish someone would draw the Loncastre ramming the gryffon ship for me - that would be an epic picture.

If you were wondering what I thought the fore-cannon would be like to fire.. this is what I was thinking: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gl-Yl0FR2Ls

It's Curtains For You

Wrath slunk towards the huge stacked stones that formed the city wall. Slipping across the roadway he moved through the long grasses and under-brush to get closer to the gateway and its tower. Fortunately the conspiratorial cargo movers had disappeared when the commotion in the air had started, and a few handy crates still littered the open ground between him and the open gate.

Moving from spot to spot using whatever cover he could find, Wrath came up against a tree that grew against the tower wall. He took the time to blend into the shadows and take a breather. Hitting the river had rather taken it out of him, and the cold was seeping into his skin even on a warm night like this.

Looking up towards the pale moon, he could see that part of the mainsail of the opposing ship must’ve torn loose during the battle, and the heavy canvas had wrapped itself across the roof of the building; no doubt caught upon the fancy decorative ironwork that adorned so many Vanneran rooftops. Lady Luck was smiling down upon him. The halyards, still attached to the torn mainsail, were hanging down the side of the building, meeting the treetop near him.

Mustering his strength, Wrath hauled himself up the broad branches of the tree, boosting himself with a little supportive magic when he felt that the glow would not be too obvious. Pushing his way through the dense foliage at the top of the tree, he grasped hold of the nearest rope and tugged carefully, testing its stability in supporting his weight. Finally convinced that he wasn’t going to plummet to the ground, he slowly inched his way up until he came close to the open and unlit window whose continual evening light had started this whole escapade.

The window was covered now with heavy drapes, blocking out whatever light was in the room. Pulling himself up the last few inches, Wrath struggled onto the windowsill and hauled himself onto the broad stone lintel, before dropping relatively noiselessly onto the stone floor behind the curtains.

The drapes were heavily patterned and were perhaps once quite opulent, but you could see that they were now well worn and fairly dusty. Likewise the floor, at least here, was fairly dirty as if it had not been cleaned in a good while. The room seemed silent, and Wrath decided to take a peek from behind the curtains and into the room beyond. He slowly nudged aside the heavy fabric and squinted against the lit candles that cast their light on him from the wall sconces around the room.

The room was fairly small, since it was set into the curve of the tower. A staircase swept up from the right, into the room, through a door that lay open. Just past the window a small table held a box and a piece of crystal. Bookshelves lined the far wall, and in the middle of the room, a large oak table and a wheelchair. On the table a piece of rough parchment lay.

Behind the table, on the far side of the wheelchair was a tall and expensive looking harp. The wheelchair was positioned towards the harp, with its back to the window; and in which sat a pegasus.

The figure was slim, and the sky blue coat well maintained. Long blonde tresses of her mane flowed down her back and commingled with those of her tail, which tumbled over the side of the contraption. The long flight pinions of her extended wings looked sharp and oiled as they lay half-outstretched towards the musical instrument.

The sylph turned her head.

‘And her hooves were well hooficured and shone so brilliantly…’, she said, ‘or did you miss that one?’

Wrath grinned.

‘The Sylph of the Tower of the West, I presume?’

‘Some have taken to such fanciful names’, replied the mare.

‘Who are you, and why come you into my chamber…’, she continued, ‘to perhaps rob a poor Vanneran cripple?’

‘Aah, theft is such a terrible thing isn’t it’, Wrath responded. ‘To deprive one of the things they own... and yet, what do I espy here upon your own table? Surely I would not expect to find such an item in the hooves of an innocent and charming young mare. I wonder where it could have come from?’ He paused and walked around the table a little, to better face her.

‘A certain priest mentioned that he was visited recently by a well-read young mare in a wheelchair,’ said Wrath, waving a hoof at the bookshelves. ‘And unfortunately he seems to have found himself missing a valuable piece of parchment... such a coincidence don't you think?’ Wrath angled himself a little closer to the table.

The mare shifted in her chair.

‘You know’, continued Wrath, ‘for a pegasus that cannot fly your hooves are indeed quite shiny...’

Downstairs there was an almighty crash as the door to the house was broken in. He could hear yells as members of the Agisters called out for the occupants to show themselves and surrender. Outside he could hear the noise of explosions, and flashes of light briefly illuminated the opposite wall through the open window.

Quickly leaning forward he made a grab for the map; as he did, the pegasus launched herself across the airspace, wings spread wide.

Grasping the map in his magic, Wrath connected his forehooves with the edge of the desk and flipped backwards. As he did so the mare passed over the top of him, but the map was now below Wrath near the floor. Twisting, he brought the map to his chest and rolled through the open doorway and down the stairs.

He heard the pegasus scream in annoyance but she, choosing not to follow Wrath down and into the hands of the authorities, exited out the open window.

Wrath bounced down the stairs hitting every single one on the way down. He finally ended up in a heap at the bottom on the cold stone floor. He groaned. Opening his eyes and slowly peering up, his eyes met the upside down gaze of a uniformed officer. He smiled weakly.

Another officer, looking rather disheveled, limped upside down into his view.

‘Aah Wrath, what a predicament you do find yourself in...’ proclaimed Cool Pastures.

Wrath grinned painfully and rolled over, stuffing the map beneath him inside his jacket as he did so.

‘She was there, the Sylph, but she flew out the window. Some cripple she was… a fake looking for who knows what.’

‘She was involved in smuggling through the city, armaments, messages, to and from our enemies; the which she left open the gates and gave admittance. Our forces have caught a number of individuals who the questioning of, will bring some further answers, I have no doubt,’ replied the Agister, indicating a pony in shackles near the door.

Wrath looked at the detained pony and nodded; it was the boatpony from before, the one with that odd sculling stroke that had been the subject of conversation on his way across the river from the Llamasery.

‘Well what’s done is done, and I’m in need of rest,’ said Wrath.

The Agister nodded, and the two limped out into the moonlight.

Back at the Broken Snare, Wrath leaned against the bar. The night’s rest had helped to ease some of the aches, although the bruises would take a while to disappear. At least they didn’t really show up against his coat. Next to him Cool Pastures sipped a complicated cocktail, whilst Black Thorn stood in his usual spot polishing the glassware.

‘...so she went for me. Good job you turned up in time with a distraction’, said Wrath, ‘although I'm still debating the merits of a trip down that staircase.’

‘It seems that perhaps there was a motive behind the Sylph's traitorous ways?’ asked the Agister.

‘War drives ponies to do strange things’, replied Wrath. ‘I would expect she’d been paid handsomely for her duplicity. Wishful thinking of the chance of wealth has driven others to do far more’, replied Wrath.

‘A terrible thing that one would abandon principles and their people for mere riches’, needled the Agister.

‘I wouldn't know’, said Wrath.

The Agister looked at him. ‘The commission would be handing you a medal for your part in downing the enemy ship, I'm sure. Quite a feat it was in such tumultuous conditions.’

‘Keep your medal’, growled Wrath. ‘You and your men took it down, I was never there.’ He paused. ‘Although safe passage out of here wouldn’t go amiss.’

Out on the river, a small boat bobbed up and down. Wrath lay back in the prow, sipping a cool drink, as the boatpony sculled his way across the harbour. A map lay across his chest.

As they passed the now empty tower house the pilot commented on the events of the past few days.

‘Strange it is, that empty house. It is said that it was inhabited by a crippled mare who shot down an enemy airship’, said the boatpony.

‘Oh?’ said Wrath. ‘I heard that it was three airships, and that she shot them down... with a giant trebuchet. It was mounted on the roof.’

‘Three... wait. What? Hey!’

The boat floated off into the sunset, a trail of muttered cursings from the rear.

Author's Note

Never try to write a story whilst running a convention >.>
Finally, we come to the close of this little adventure! I hope you (all three of you) who've been reading have enjoyed it as much as I did putting it together.

As stated at the beginning this was rather a test of a genre style to see if it would work. I don't know if the rest of the story will be written; but at least Wrath has his map now; so he's on his way.