II. In the Dark Backward

“I am curious, Colonel, how much of your stories are … uh … improvisation? As opposed to a more sober retelling of the delightfully gruesome facts of the matter? Is there a particular ratio of history to myth?” Jon Quill adjusted his position on a rather cramped chair in the old kitchen, pencil in hoof.

Like his flowery namesake, this undersized earth pony was yellow and orange, with his body being the lighter of the two colors. He had already taken extensive (and occasionally comprehensible) notes, along with a few scribbled sketches. Given that his cutie mark was an ink-splotch with a pair of writing quills (looking rather like a exclamation point crossing a question mark) it didn’t come as much of surprise to find this cheerful little stallion asking a flurry of questions, some of which might not be the most tactful.

“You’d be surprised how much history repeats itself when you scratch away the covering of myth.” The elderly Colonel George Lusk sipped at a cup of tea. His white eyebrows went up again. He glanced at Valentina. “I say, you really do make a delightful cuppa.”

Valentina smiled and continue to clean out the pot. Her wings were neatly folded at her sides. Her coloration (cream body, mane and tail the color of strong tea, eyes the color of honey) somehow helped made her usurpation of the kitchen’s facilities to brew beverages seem quite natural, even without factoring in her cutie mark of a steaming cup. The Colonel had already decided that even if she was some sort of administrative assistant these days, Valentina must have a military background of some sort. Civilians never seemed to leave the pots that spic-and-span.

“You’re sure it’s alright, sir?” Cantor Mortalis was eyeing the cookie jar longingly. Anypony gazing on his plump form could guess this unicorn had a weakness for sweets and a likely aversion to exercise or hard labor. But a love for good food and a bookish disposition wouldn’t explain why his back left leg was supported by a well-worn leather and steel brace. Nor why he kept a cape draped to conceal his cutie-mark. Still, the black of the cape went fashionably with his white coat and dark mane, a mane already shot through with a few gray streaks. At least his clumsy limping wasn’t bad enough to require a cane.

The Colonel’s answering chuckle was jolly and full of understanding. He, too, was an aging marshmallow of a pony. The nod of his head and the airy wave of his hoof was all the invitation Cantor needed.

The four ponies were in a kitchen of the Bayside Historical Society in Fort Trotten. Specifically, they were in the Castle – a red brick and white stone late gothic revival building whose crenelated battlements and towers left visitors with no doubts as to how it had earned that nickname.

The Castle had once been the Fort Trotten Officer’s Club. The park-like district, which hadn’t been an Equestrian military encampment for several decades, lay some ways east of Manehatten proper across both the river and a bay. The area was a green and pleasant contrast to the towering sky-scrapers of the city itself.

They were in the kitchen because Colonel George Lusk’s office was far too crowded to have anything like a comfortable meeting. The aging, and retired, Colonel had simply led them through to the Castle’s kitchen and plopped himself down on a chair for their chat. No parties had the building reserved for the day. And technically the doors had closed at four in the afternoon, so there was no need to worry about being disturbed by more tourists.

Colonel George Lusk’s grin widened as Cantor helped himself to another hoof-full of oatmeal raisin cookies with obvious enthusiasm. The Colonel himself had grown noticeably rounder over the years snacking out of that very jar. It was clear from his markings that the Colonel had originally been some sort of blue on blue (darker mane and tail over a lighter coat) but over time it had all faded to a near white. His cutie mark, a parade crop crossed with a monocle, stood out quite noticeably against the pale background.

“And,” the Colonel continued, after another sip of tea, “I will ask you not to make me repeat myself, young colt. It’s just George. Not ‘sir,’ nor Colonel ... just George.”

“Fank oo … ,” Cantor paused to swallow, “… George.” George thought Cantor seemed oddly distracted, as if listening for something out of the ordinary. George himself didn’t hear anything untoward. Then again, his hearing wasn’t what it had used to be.

Jon Quill scribbled in his notepad before going on, “So, Col- … sorry, George. You’re saying that it’s all the unvarnished truth?”

George laughed again. “Of course not, Jon. Truth is often too raw to do well without at least one coat of varnish! But to answer your questions, yes. I did, in fact do years of research – very extensive research – into the matter of Laughing Jack or Jack of Blades and his famous knife.”

George tapped a copy of the book, “Red Blade,” which lay on the counter. Colonel George Lusk was clearly listed as the author.

“So, you’d call it …?” Valentine piped up from her position near the sink.

“Fictionalized, of course. But more factual than not.” George raised an eyebrow. “So, why are you three so interested in the bloody tale of Jack of Blades?”

Jon smiled his second most charming smile. “Why, I’m doing research for a possible newspaper piece! A retrospective on the story, the stallion, the slayer himself. Unanswered questions, paranormal oddities, all of that.” This wasn't exactly the truth, nor even all that close to it. Even if Jon Quill did wind up publishing an article on the matter there were far darker and more pressing concerns surrounding this issue than a simple exercise in tabloid sensationalism.

“So you decided to come speak with me, as an expert in the field?”

“As the expert in the field!” Jon’s flattery was surprisingly sincere.

“And here I thought you folks at the Star just made it all up as you went along.” George’s gaze had narrowed slightly, and his smile had acquired a bit of a hard edge.

Jon blinked in surprise. While this meeting had been arranged under the auspices of gathering information for a forthcoming newspaper article, Jon Quill had been careful to omit the precise tabloid he worked for. While his battered hat had a genuine press card in the brim, almost no pony took anything they read in the Yellow Star seriously. For very good reasons, as Jon Quill would be the first to admit. It would be hard (if not impossible) to find a more trashy, bizarre, and unreliable rag on the market.

“Well,” Jon grinned a bit sheepishly, “while many of my colleagues couldn’t be bothered to bestir their backsides and would rather rely on equal parts gossip, absinthe, and fever dreams, I have always prided myself on my role as an investigative journalist looking into the realms of the exotic, the miraculous, the extraordinary.”

George snorted. All things considered, this was going surprisingly well. Too often, an admission that he was from the Yellow Star would get Jon pitched out of a place faster than you could say paparazzi!

“And,” Jon continued, “While I will admit to certain … embellishments … on my own part,” Jon’s face scrunched up in displeasure as he muttered, “... not to mention further embellishments by my overly sensationalist editors ….” Jon shook his head as he returned to his original train of thought, “I do like to think that my own stories are a bit more factual than not.”

George’s eyebrows climbed higher. His expression was one of polite, but still amused, disbelief.

Jon winked as he added, “After all, I have it on excellent authority that the raw truth does better with at least one coat of varnish!”

George laughed.

Around the kitchen, Cantor, Valentina, and Jon all found themselves relaxing. Valentina shot Cantor a curious look, but Cantor just shook his head. He had a couple of friendship charms at his disposal, as Valentina and Jon both knew, but Cantor hadn’t subtly deployed any magical enchantments to help smooth the way. At least not yet.

Just as well, he might need his limited spell-power later that evening – even if everything went to plan. Not to mention that many ponies became quite irate when spells that swayed minds and hearts wore off ... assuming the spell stuck in the first place. So while Cantor had such mind altering enchantments at his disposal, over the years he had learned it was usually better not to use them at all!

“Very well, Mister Quill. I suppose a revival of Jack of Blade’s legend in the Yellow Star couldn’t hurt sales of my books, eh? Nor would it cause a drop off in our tourist business here at the Castle, eh?” But then George leaned forward with a frown. The Colonel poked at Jon’s notebook as he added, in a much more serious tone, “But you leave my name out of it, are we clear? I’m an unnamed, anonymous source.”

“It’s a deal!” Jon beamed with pleasure.

“So, what do you want to know?” George stood up and stretched one of his back legs. He winced.

“Are you o.k. sir?” Cantor was frowning at the old stallion.

“Just age, lad. Just age. Sit too long and it’s the very devil of a time getting up again. My aches and pains get aches and pains. Also …” George trailed off with a look of mild disapproval.

“Sorry, are you o.k., George?” Cantor’s concern was genuine. George Lusk felt suddenly touched, and a bit guilty as to his lingering suspicions.

“I’m fine. Now, to your friend’s questions, yes?”

“Right, so George: what can you tell us about Jack of Blade’s origins? And of his legendary knife?”

George pursed his lips. “And suddenly I feel an intuition coming on: you haven’t actually read any of my books have you?”

“Not a one!” Jon’s answer was cheerful.

“We’ve only just purchased a set to peruse,” Cantor added, sounding appropriately abashed.

“And really, we’d rather hear the tale from the horses’ mouth, so to speak!” Valentina chimed in.

George shook his head and rolled his eyes. His tone, though, remained as friendly as before. “Well then, what’s to say? Stop me if you’ve heard something before – and if you’ve specific questions, raise your hoof before interrupting.”

The Colonel looked around the kitchen, noting the nods of agreement from his three visitors.

“Very well, Jacob Fitz Tassel – the stallion who would become known as Jack of Blades – was born in Hollow Shades and grew up there, in Tarry Town. He had a reputation as a brawler, a wild colt, and a trouble-maker. He wasn’t one of the Van Tassels officially, as his father (the elder Van Tassel) wasn’t actually married to Jacob's mother. In and out of trouble with the law, Jacob moved to New Amsteerdame (which was what they were calling Manehatten at that time) and sought to bully his way up the social ladder of the underworld. Yes?”

Jon Quill had his hoof up.

“Hollow Shades – that’s west of here, right? Nestled in the Foal Mountains? I hear there are a lot of ghost stories that come out of that region.”

George nodded, “Right on all counts. It’s an …” the Colonel paused in a way that his visitors found strangely chilling, “… odd part of the world. Time … well, time seems to have passed it by somehow. I went there some years back, stayed on with the Apple family – they’ve an orchard outside Tarry – and I swear, my great-great-grandfather probably would have felt right at home.”

George shook his head and shivered. Perhaps that was just from the afternoon chill. The sky overhead was filling up with clouds as pegasi from the local Weather Guild prepared for an early evening storm. George continued to pace slowly around the kitchen as he spoke.

“I’m not one to put much stock in ghost tales (and the Shades are a place where you can’t swing a stick without hitting at least one) but when I was there … well … maybe it was just the locals’ unfriendliness towards outsiders, but I’ve never felt so … unwelcome. Like something in the land itself was wrong. If there’s someplace in Equestria that’s genuinely haunted, it’ll be in Hollow Shades – mark my words.”

“At any rate, coming from the back woods of the Shades, Jack wasn’t the sort of colt to scare easily. He made something of a name for himself among the underworld elements of the city back in the day. Brought up on trial for all sorts of offenses – up to and including murder. But no pony could ever seem to make anything stick.”

George’s expression turned a bit grimmer as he added, “Hard to make charges stick when witnesses just … disappear, eh?” The set of his mouth and the raised eyebrow implied that Jack was most likely the reason that witnesses against him never seemed to make it to trial.

“Well, after Jack had been active for a few years he got into trouble. Rival underworld families fighting over shipping and distribution rights to some illegal (and legal) merchandise. Plus the gangs in the city were meddling in politics. It wasn’t a pretty time to live in Manehatten, let me tell you! A few deals went south, a few elections were lost, a couple of prominent citizens had unfortunate accidents and the next thing you know Jack’s in a bad way. He’d backed the wrong people, the losing side. Yes, Jon?”

Jon Quill had his hoof up again. “I notice you’ve not yet mentioned his knife?”

“Correct, I haven’t. I was just coming to that.” George didn’t seem annoyed by the interruption.

“As I was saying, Jack was in trouble. So he ran back home. That would have been late spring, early summer. Fall came and went, then early in winter – just before Hearth’s Warming – he showed back up in Manehatten. There’s not a lot of reports from ponies who actually knew him that well, but he seemed … different. He had always been a hard stallion, a tough customer, and just as ready to brawl as to threaten … but now there was an edge of madness to him. Or perhaps the madness that had always been there was more pronounced. He had a wild eyed, jittery look that never seemed to go away. And one that was slowly getting worse. He acted like he heard voices nopony else could hear.”

Cantor gave a little start at that. He looked oddly uncomfortable.

“And,” George sounded grim, “he had a knife. Bright red blade made of some strange metal that was almost but not quite iron, with a gold hilt wrapped in black leather. He kept it by him always.”

“That was when the murders started.”

Cantor shivered. Nor was he the only pony to do so. George was a good story teller. And the darkening atmosphere outside the Castle was only helping set the mood.

“The police were baffled. And I can understand why. Murder … well, murder isn’t always simple. But, having grown up in a household where my father and grandfather were both policecolts, I can say that most of the time there’s a reason you can find. A pretty face is one; thievery or its aftermath is another; and fear. Fear of exposure, fear of loss, fear of secrets getting out.”

“But these …” George shook his head. After a brief pause he rummaged in a cabinet and took down a bottle of cider. He popped it open and took a drink.

“Where was I? Oh yes, the murders.” George settled himself back onto a chair.

“The police were baffled. From the timing, some ponies were afraid that Albion’s authorities had somehow messed up their efforts to catch the Whitechapel killer over in Lunadun and whoever … or whatever … that was had crossed over to the Equestrian mainland from the Griffish Isles. The attacks were brutal. No rhyme or reason to them. Two of them were a young couple from here in the Fort Trotten district. Relatives of one of the officers. That got the folks stationed at Fort Trotten involved. And it’s one of the reasons that some of Jack’s effects ultimately wound up here, at the Fort Trotten Officer’s club which, as you know, became the Bayside Historical Society after the fort was decommissioned. Yes?”

Cantor had his hoof up this time. “Just three murders? Were there others that Jack was suspected of being involved with?”

George nodded, “Quite right! Three confirmed, another two highly likely victims. And if you comb through the old newspapers from back then, which I have, there are a solid two dozen ‘missing pony’ reports that could be laid at his hooves as well.”

George sighed, “Part of the problem was that most of those missing ponies weren’t from the best of families. Petty crooks, burglars, pick-pockets, smugglers, con-colts, and working fillies … if you catch my drift. Too many didn’t have friends or family to really press for answers when one of them just … disappeared. And the police didn’t get overly involved until ‘respectable’ ponies starting turning up dead.”

George pondered, then added “Well … to their credit even the most jaded officers were willing to put in the extra hours researching disappearances among the criminal class when some of those who had ‘disappeared’ were later found gutted like fishes.”

George blinked at Valentina, “Sorry miss, just quoting from the reports.”

“Oh, la! No worries about me. My stomach is stronger than that.” Valentina smiled innocently at Jon Quill. “Do you need a bin, Jon?”

Jon Quill was looking distinctly green around the gills. “No,” he lied, “I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

George nodded. “Anyway, the papers started offering ‘missing pony’ pieces – a short paragraph, and a photograph (if one could be supplied) free of charge. That was enough for worried friends and relations to take out advertisements for information. The good news is this led to some happy reunions and several ponies getting back into a better place in life. But, as I said, there were twenty four ponies that went missing and were never found. I’ve got all the old clippings with my supplementary notes down in the basement.”

“Could we see them?” It was Cantor who interrupted. And he had forgotten to raise his hoof.

George raised an eyebrow, “I think not. I went to far too much trouble to assemble that information. If you like, I could compile a list of which papers, which dates, and some general details. But those clippings are rare and delicate. No offense, but I wouldn’t let anypony handle them other than me.”

Noting Cantor’s crestfallen expression, George added, “If you like I could take you all down there and show you two or three of the most interesting. I’ll even pop open a box or two of old correspondence and family journals I’ve acquired that are likewise in the ’hooves off’ category for anypony other than myself.”

“That would be lovely!” Valentina smiled and stood up. She offered Cantor a foreleg, and he took it to help steady himself as the ponies began to follow George out of the kitchen and down the hall.

“Anyway, turns out that enough missing ponies – and all of the dead ones – could be connected to Jack one way or another. When the police popped round to bring him in for questioning, it turned bloody. It turned bloody awfully fast. While Jack didn’t succeed in slaying any of the officers tasked with arresting him, four of them had to retire permanently from the force due to their injuries. And Jack himself died in the course of being apprehended.”

George unlocked a door and led the way down to the basement, his voice, echoing up from the darkness was extra spooky as he added, “They say his body kept fighting even after he had received multiple death-wounds. It wasn’t until an officer got that red knife out of his hoof that Jack finally lay still.”

Valentina and Cantor exchanged glances.

“I understand the knife was housed here?” Jon’s interest in this question was considerably greater than his tone would imply.

“It was. Some idiot stole the thing, years back. Not sure when.”

George flipped on the lights and sighed. “Truthfully? It worries me. I’ve been watching the papers, listening to the news, waiting for word that folks are turning up dead again. That knife … it's evil.”

George spoke with certainty. With finality.

“Evil?” Jon held his pencil at the ready.

“Evil. I touched it once. Held it in my hoof. There is some dark magic woven into that blade. I could hear a sound like a ringing bell. And voices whispering just at the edge of hearing. Some laughed, and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. Some screamed. And most seemed full of panic. Of fear. It was as if the knife itself was urging me to lash out at those around me … to protect myself from them. To keep me safe.”

George shivered. “Sweet Celestia. The room I was in had been warded and I was wearing white silk gloves, didn’t hold the thing for more than a minute but I still wake up in a cold sweat sometimes from the nightmares that gave me. We kept it in that safe over there for good reasons.” George gestured to a safe built into one wall.

Cantor, Valentina, and Jon all blinked at it in surprise. It looked more like something you’d find in a bank-vault than a basement!

“You think Jack got the blade when he returned to Tarry Town that one fall?” Cantor helped the old Colonel move a few boxes to a nearby table top. He managed to do so without dropping anything, which came as a bit of a surprise to Jon and Valentina.

“I do.” George eyed Cantor. “Say, what’s your interest in the knife? And why are you mixed up with this reporter?”

Cantor deployed one of his self-deprecating expressions. As usual it worked surprisingly well. “Well, George, I’ve some … friends. Friends who are interested in that blade and the sort of wicked magic it seems to have. Like you say, Jack’s Red Blade is on the loose somewhere … and somepony will eventually need to stop it. And to stop whatever it’s been doing since it’s been out of storage. Magic like that …” Cantor grimaced, “Let’s just say it’s unwise to ignore places it’s been sitting around.”

“Huh,” George was satisfied. Mostly. “Where’d you study such things? You a student of the dark arts?”

Cantor grinned, “Well, I washed out of Nighthaven Academy – so, based on the school's reputation alone, I suppose you could say ‘yes, I am!’ At the time, my own researches were focused on other matters. I didn’t learn about all of this until fairly recently.”

“Cantor’s been working with me, providing much needed arcane expertise, in this matter,” Jon chimed in.

George gave the two a look, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced. Cantor couldn’t blame him. The reality was that it was Cantor’s researches into the rise of the Trotting Dead over the past few months that had provided them with such leads as ancient, evil daggers and the dark forces which were forged into them. In short, Jon was the one helping Cantor; not the other way around.

George seemed willing to let the matter slide.

“Well, somepony probably ought to. I’m too old these days. Not to mention,” the Colonel chuckled as he tapped his forehead with one hoof, “no horn! No magic to work with should I manage to find the blade.”

George was laying out pictures and pages – some clippings from newspapers, some taken from books or personal journals. Cantor, Valentina and Jon Quill were all peering over the old Colonels shoulders and devouring the tidbits they could decipher with a delighted dread.

George tapped a photograph of the dagger. “Jack’s Red Blade was magical, that much is clear. And as for where it came from I’ve got my own theories.”

“What might those be?” Jon inquired.

“Have you ever heard of the Red Reaver?” George watched the three ponies carefully. It was clear to him that they had.

“Yes,” Cantor admitted, “She was supposed to be a ghostly unicorn who raised up a small army of the Trotting Dead about four centuries ago. She forged a cult dedicated to bringing down Celestia. The skeletons and zombies who fought for her were supposedly unusually fierce – fighting with a mindless, near berserk rage. Or fear. Maybe both.”

George’s eyebrows shot up again. “Impressive. Most ponies don’t know that bit of history.”

“Well, we don’t know much more than that ourselves,” Valentina added.

George nodded. “Then here’s a few tidbits that’ll interest you. First, while the Reaver herself was put down – pinned in a barrow and warded with powerful spells of containment,” George frowned as he tried to remember a particularly obscure detail. “They used some variation on Trotwine's Spiritual Binding ... uh ...”

Cantor glanced towards an empty corner of the kitchen, pursed his lips, and raised an eyebrow (there was an odd hint of amusement in that expression) before he added, “I believe you’re thinking of Morari the Maneless’ substantially improved Ghostly Shackling Ward, yes?”

George nodded, “That's the one! Well, on to the important bit. As I was saying, she fell ... but after her fall there were rumors that some of her cult survived. That ponies who were loyal to her lived through her fall and kept their beliefs alive.”

“What? Who? Where? How?” Where the others were stunned into silence, Jon instinctively reverted to babbling questions. He ended with on a note of shocked and horrified surprise that made the previous four inquiries seem calm and collected by comparison, “Why?!”

George chuckled. “Well, they were afraid of her. She was fearsome. She had been defeated, you know, but how do you truly slay the dead? If they had served her once … and then they stopped … and then she found out about it … well, that wouldn't be a good day to have once been part of her murderous cult, eh?”

George rubbed his chin as he continued, “Also, she promised her followers an end to mortality. An end to death. Everlasting life.”

After a moment of silence, George grinned. A touch of his usual jolliness shone through, “Now, everlasting life sounds all well and good when you’re a young whippersnapper … but me? I’m old. Like I said, my aches and pains have aches and pains. Death doesn’t scare me. Not in a real rush to get there, but …” the Colonel smiled warmly, “… when I do, in some ways it’ll be a true relief. A reunion with old friends, long gone. Now if she were offering eternal youth, then I might have to reconsider … though it’s too late for that for me.”

“How so?” Valentina was the one to ask the question, Jon and Cantor were too busy staring with a mixture of surprise and respect at the old earth pony.

“Well, like I said, the Reaver’s cult – while not active, nor large – is still around. After a fashion. Hard to keep tabs on a secret society, even one where membership appears to be passed down through family lines. But when I was snooping around Shady Hollow, looking into Jack and his Red Blade … let’s just say I attracted their notice.”

George pursed his lips. “Off the record? It wound up being two funerals worth of ‘attracting their notice.’ And that’s all I have to say about that. Other than to add that even if I were tempted by their promises (which I’m not) they wouldn’t take me.”

George grinned again, “Tidbit two: Jacob Fitz Tassel was a Reaver Cultist. The Van Tassels deny he got into it through their family lines, but you know how small town gossip gets. There was suspicion of that family long before Jacob was born into unfortunate circumstances.” George shrugged. “And knowing small town gossip, it’s just as likely there wasn’t anything real behind those rumors. Well, other than old family feuds and ill feeling over somepony’s great-grandparent doing somepony else’s great-grandparent wrong in some business deal or courtship or something.”

“Anyway – Jack’s Red Blade? I’d bet good money it was one of the Red Reaver’s own knives. She supposedly had two.”

“And you think Jack got it because he was part of her Cult?” Cantor was eyeing some old family journals, records of births and deaths. Jacob Fitz Tassel was mentioned there.

George snorted. “Hell, he may have dug it out of her grave.”

That got the attention of every pony in the room.

“Tidbit three? The Reaver’s buried somewhere in the fields outside Tarry Town.”