Interlude 02 - The Sorcerer and the Champion

Somewhere in the Ponyville System

Light-hours away from Ponyville, there was a speck of darkness. It was seemingly insignificant. A spot of black paint on a black canvas, the echo of a glitch on an auspex screen, the shadow of a shadow in a moonless night. It had been drifting in the sector for quite some times now, floating at the edge of the system.

Light-hours away from Ponyville, an age-old warship drifted, flirting with the system’s defensive sensors, close enough for its machine spirit to feel their caresses on its hull, but way too far to ever send a meaningful signal.

Light-hours away from Ponyville, the Somnum Extereri laid in wait.

And inside it was the Sorcerer.

He stood, silent, in the watching bay of the war vessel. He loved the place. It was the only room in the Luna’s Bats’ ship that he could call his own. Sure they had tried to deny it, but is was merely a petty attempt at asserting their dominance. The Sorcerer had played along and begged the spacemares until Night Terror had intervened and gave it to him. He chuckled at the thought. This had been a bonding experience of a sort. The moment he had truly joined the Bats in their crusade.

Not the Bats’, he amended mentally, Night Terror’s crusade.

And for the past decade, it had also been his.

Behind him, dozens of fanatics were chanting for the Gods, asking for their blessing. Sometimes, one managed to catch their gazes upon them. What happened next depended on the cruelty of the Lords of the Immaterium and the cultist’s resilience.

Before him, the system was laid bare, red marbles dancing too slowly for the eye to see. Thousands of lives skittered on one of those spheres. The sorcerer could guess them. He could feel them. A simple push, a simple peek outside the veil of the material universe would reveal it... the flickering light of living souls illuminating the Immaterium.

It was a strange thing for him to consider the life of the Ponyvillians. For years now, the system and its inhabitants had been directly impacted by his predictions and the resulting actions of the Bats. For years he had shaped it, playing a complex game of regicide the opposite side wasn’t even aware of.

He had groomed this system, he had grown it, with the patience of a gardener... He had created a fertile soil for dissension, sowing the seeds from which the Moon Cult had burgeoned. He had patiently cut the weed of the Imperium influence in the sector... An ambush in a neighbouring system, a sabotage in another, the Bats had even diverted some threat to the planet elsewhere or simply destroyed them before they would drive unnecessary attention to the area. He had enduringly funnelled the imperial forces toward other objectives.

It had taken lots of time, lots of sacrifices, he’d had to temper the Bats’ enthusiasm from time to time, but it would be so worth it. The harvest time was coming and soon he would reap the fruits of his efforts.

He chuckled again, louder, longer, anticipating the sweet taste of victory.

“What is so funny, Sorcerer?” asked a guttural, toneless voice.

The Sorcerer flinched.When did she come in?

Of all the spacemares in the ship, no matter how dangerous, powerful or depraved they might be, only Night Terror had this effect on him. She was an unanswerable enigma, a part of his plan he was forced to rely on but could not control nor fully comprehend, let alone read.

And this was just as unsettling as it was thrilling.

“Nothing much, Champion,” he said with confidence.He sensed the small twitch of annoyance at the title he had chosen for her, the almost imperceptible shudder of her tail that escaped her control. One point for each side, Night Terror, he noted with barely hidden amusement.

“I was just thinking how much easier a game becomes when your opponent is not aware they are playing.”

“Some would call that cowardice,” she pointed emotionlessly.

“Would you?” he taunted.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she calmly walked through the room and stood by his side. It had always amused him to see the massive, war demi-goddess of a pegasus at his side, as his equal. There was something exhilarating about it. Even more so as he knew it was just as infuriating to her as it was pleasing to him. He knew better than to do anything more than tease her however. She had just enough respect for his powers and knowledge to admit that she needed him.

She would definitely eliminate him at the very moment he stopped being useful.

They stayed immobile, fixing their eyes on the blackness of space for a few moments, him with amused awe, her with cold detachment. She was the one to break the silence.

“Is this necessary?” she asked, pointing at the cultists.

The Sorcerer nodded solemnly.

“Yes. It fuels the relics you see? I will need them to keep going until all of your mares have reached their objective.”

“Will it take long?”

“It’s a matter of minutes now.”

“Good.”

In the background, a cultist died, burned to crisp by ethereal fires. To their merit, they didn’t scream.

“Your plan had better work,” she said calmly.

“It will,” he affirmed confidently. “I never disappointed you before, I don’t plan on starting now.” The warmare didn’t answer. The psyker took it as a cue to keep talking. “I think that’s the first time in a long time I saw you express doubts about my capacities, Champion. Did I do anything to displease you, my Liege?”

“Did you?”

The Sorcerer laughed. “I would be a fool to say yes.”

In the background another cultist died, rotting and vanishing in mere seconds. This one was not as silent as their predecessor.

“Do you know the first lesson of strategy my mistress ever gave me?” he asked out of the blue.

“No, Sorcerer,” she said flatly, unphased by the shrieks or the abrupt change of topic.

“She taught me that a good plan does not make success a certainty, for such a thing does not exists; a good plan makes failure insignificant,” he stated calmly.

“Funny... Do you know what my Primare’ch taught me once on this very subject?”

“Please, do enlighten me.”

“She taught me that failure was never an option.”

Silence fell once again, cold as a blade against a pony’s neck.

“I suppose a mere pony has different expectations to meet than an all-powerful spacemare,” he said, trying to look calm after such a thinly veiled threat.

“The price of failure stays the same Sorcerer,” she articulated slowly, looking at him intensely. “Don’t forget it.”

“I have more to lose than you could ever take from me spacemare. So rest assured that I won’t,” he responded without hesitations, withstanding the mare gaze.

“Good.”

There was yet another silence. No cultist died this time. The chant had ceased. The ritual was over.

“I think the time has come. Ponyville is ripe for the taking.”

The stoic pegasus let a ravenous smile flourish on her face.

“About time.”

Author's Note

"Victory attained through violence is victory indeed. But when the enemy turns on itself- that is the essence of true, lasting victory."
– Kor Phareon

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."
– Proverb