Forging Tempest

by HeideKnight

Rating: teen
Tags: Tragedy, My Little Pony: The Movie, Human, Original Character, Other, Tempest Shadow
Length: 5666

Tempest Shadow travels home.

Following the Storm King's defeat, Tempest traveled the known world. She spread news of his downfall across formerly subjugated lands. Now there remains one creature to tell, and one more journey to make: The journey home.

Cover art by Shamanguli

My late entry in the Season 9 Bingo Contest

Still not done. Still rewriting.

Updates when I'm satisfied.

Published 2019-04-30 05:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-04-30 05:00:01 UTC

Chapter 1

Tempest Shadow watched the wharf from the iron steamer’s deck. Creatures of every kind bartered at stalls and on corners under the midafternoon sun. Crates lined the water front, and vessels docked and departed like rotating dance partners. Beyond the wharf, Stormport’s streets overflowed traffic. Creatures walked, shoulders conjoined, but avoided eye contact. A great, coordinated, disinterested mass. Tempest smirked beneath her cloak hood.

“Leavin’ us, are ye?” Toothy, a lanky shark with a pierced fin, the steamer’s first mate, said.

“Yes,” Tempest said. She paused, then looked at him. “I’m going home.”

Toothy studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, was figurin’ as much.” He looked toward the town. “Busier ‘an I remember.”

“The Storm King’s defeat is every trader’s boon,” Tempest said, following his gaze.

“Been better to some ports ‘an others.” Toothy shrugged. He scratched his jaw. “Keep yer head out there.”

“I will.” Tempest lifted her hoof, then hesitated. She looked to Toothy. “And… thank you.”

Toothy nodded, then turned toward the deck. “Alright ye lazy minnows, cheap drinks an’ cheap women ashore…”

Tempest disembarked and his voice blended with the crowd’s. She walked along the wharf and weaved between creatures and stalls. She turned down a street. Stalls lined this road, too, and carts and wagons. Open doorways revealed taverns, inns, bars, and brothels hosting sailors, traders, and travelers. Tempest eyed the clothes, trinkets, and food hanging from racks and splayed across tables; goods she’d seen abroad, and those unique to Equestria. She paused when somecreature tugged her cloak.

“Hey, lady!” a turquoise, reptilian child said. He wore ragged suspenders and a red bandana around his neck and had spines down his back like an iguana. “Gimme a bit so I can get somethin’ to eat.”

“Hmph.” Tempest met his eyes. “And how do I know you won’t waste what I give you on treats?”

“So what if I do?” the child said and crossed his arms. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business what eats I’m buyin’.”

Tempest lifted her head and stared the kid down. He remained stolid. Their eyes were chained, a wordless duel between veteran vagabonds.

Tempest smirked. “Willful urchin,” she said. She pulled a pudgy coin purse from her cloak. She noted the child’s expanding pupils. She dropped two bits into his claws. “With your spirit, hunger will be the least of your problems.”

“Thanks lady,” the child said, then he flitted between stalls and was gone.

Tempest stowed her purse. She approached a covered wagon. A white stallion with a rust colored mane sat, back against it, and guzzled a wooden tankard. He shot Tempest a wary look. “Yeah?”

Tempest glanced at the wagon, then fixed her eyes on the stallion. “I’m traveling north, to Klugetown. Can you take me?”

The stallion showed her skeptical regard, then turned his nose. “Not heading that way. Sorry.” He returned to his tankard.

“Right…” Tempest left him to his drink.

She asked other wagons, baggage trains, a mule with a cart, but received the same answer. By evening, she’d about exhausted the town’s supply of wheeled creatures. She shook her head at a one-horned minotaur, a choice indicative of her narrowing options.

“No, I’m not going to Equestria,” Tempest said.

“Ain’t nothing that way but Equestria worth the stop,” the minotaur growled. He raised his brow. “Unless you’re staying in the desert. You a hermit? Kinda dressed like one.” He laughed.

Tempest sighed. “No, I’m not a hermit. I need passage to Klugetown. Can you take me?”

The minotaur stopped mid-laugh. His face flushed and he glowered at her. “That’s not funny. You think you can trick me, runt?” He stomped his hoof and the street quivered.

Tempest’s stance remained solid. “That would be a no, then?”

The minotaur forced his nose into her face. “I ought to snap you in half.”

“I take it you won’t miss the other horn,” Tempest said.

“There you are! How many times do I have to tell you to leave folks well enough?” a shriveled voice called. Tempest and the minotaur turned. A wizened turtle approached. He wore a ragged top hat and his right eye was scarred shut. “Forgive me, Bodacious,” he said as he squeezed between Tempest and the minotaur. “New help, you know. She doesn’t know the lay of the land yet.”

The minotaur stood upright and huffed. “She’s one of yours, Sheldon? Makes sense.” He looked at Tempest and blew a dismissive steam plume. “Teach her manners, too, or she won’t last long around here.”

The turtle tipped his hat. “Of course! But these things take time, you know. Come along, dear.”

Tempest glanced at Bodacious, then followed Sheldon.

“That was foolish, young mare,” Sheldon said. “I assume you’re either suicidal or very poor at your job.”

“Neither,” Tempest said. “And you are?”

“Sheldon Kappa, procurer of curios, oddities, and intrigues.”

“Intrigues?” Tempest said

“Why of course. These are dangerous times, you know,” Sheldon flourished. He led Tempest to a wagon between a stall and a beige tarp covering a large, splintery object. It was nondescript, wood paneled. It had a blue roof, but no windows. Sheldon turned toward her. “Welcome to my humble shop, Miss…?”

Tempest scanned the cart. “I see no shop.”

“Ho, ho. Too much faith in your eyes will blind you.”

Tempest backstepped. “Where… did you hear that?”

“Hold on, young mare! Let me do the big reveal before you’re awestruck.” Sheldon hit his wagon’s side. It clicked, whirred, then the panel popped open in four sections like a cardboard box. The bottom was a table like a flea market, disorganized junk of every kind. The right panel was a cork board cluttered by maps and illegible documents, and the left was a stack of nested doll lined shelves, like from Stalliongrad. “Impressive, eh?” he beamed.

Tempest approached the table. She touched a Celestia bobblehead. The head jiggled, listless, then detached.

“Hey, you break, you buy!” Sheldon said. Tempest gave him a blank look, then started leaving. “Wait, wait!” He cut her off, both arms extended. “Maybe you’re not interested in my oddities, but how about my intrigues?” Sheldon produced a stack of papers, bound in twine. “I’ve an excellent twenty-six step plan to rob the bank of Canterlot.”

Tempest stepped around him. “Not interested.”

“Alright! Alright…” Sheldon followed to her. “If I can’t interest you in my goods, then how about my services?”

Tempest paused.

“I see that has your attention!” He clasped his claws. “The great Sheldon Kappa is not your average merchant, you know.” His eye narrowed. “I am the only merchant still willing to travel to Klugetown.”

“The only merchant?” Tempest tilted her head. “And why might that be?”

“You mean you really don’t know?” Sheldon tisked. He returned to his junk table and reaffixed Celestia’s head. “Without the Storm King’s goons protecting commerce, Kluegtown’s become a pirate’s nest.” He folded in the side panels and tilted up the table. The items atop it were undisturbed. “Well, more of a pirate’s nest.”

“Then why are you comfortable travelling there?” Tempest asked.

“Let’s just say I’ve got the right friends.” Sheldon winked.

Tempest rounded. Somecreature bumped her. “Sorry,” she muttered. She considered Sheldon for a moment, then the sky. It would be night soon. “When can we leave?”

“Immediately! That is, if you have the bits. Better bring snacks though. No meals provided.” Sheldon said, snapping the final panel in place.

Tempest reached beneath her cloak. She paused. She reached to the other side, then looked up. Her pouch was gone. She glanced around. Down the street she saw a scaly blue tail disappear around an alleyway corner.

“That little…” Tempest whispered.

“Huh? What is it?” Sheldon asked.

Tempest pulled her cloak from her armor and tossed it to Sheldon. “A bigger problem than hunger.”

“That armor,” Sheldon said. “You’re from…”

Tempest bolted forward, through the crowd, onto a barrel, over a stall, onto an awning, and catapulted atop a roof. She sprinted up its clay tiles and paused on the ridge. She scanned the adjacent street. The crowds were thinning. Some of the vendors were packing their wares, and groups of sailors stumbled toward the wharf. She squinted. Beneath a stall, nose in Tempest’s coin purse, was a familiar lizard child. Tempest clenched her teeth. She hopped on the slope and slid off roof’s edge. She landed like a lion upon prey. The child’s color drained. He met her eyes and closed her bag.

Tempest pointed at the pouch. He looked aside, then to her hoof. He clutched the bag, extended it, and tossed it over her head. As Tempest watched it fly, he ran. Another child caught it; a pudgy, green frill-neck. He grinned, then darted.

Tempest groaned. She noted the pudgy child’s direction, but continued after the blue one. She ducked around slow-moving wagons and through a group of sailors—they cursed her—and was soon on his tail.

“Hey! Aren’t you goin’ after your bits?” He said, face flummoxed and panicked.

Tempest was silent, pace measured. She heard her breathing, watched the crowd, felt the unpaved roads, the dust. Familiar, almost nostalgic. She could almost hear the shouting.

“Get back here, you little thief!”

Fizzle slid beneath a stall, and hung a hard corner, but kept moving. She heard a crash and cursing, but his hoofsteps were undaunted. He was angry today.

She slipped around another corner. The streets were muddy, so her turns were more coordinated drifts than sharp banks. She was on the main road now. Ponies moved slow here. They hauled their wagons, carried their purchases, and traveled in flocks. Fizzle shot between a group of mares—they chided her—and past a hefty, brown, box-loaded cart. She ducked behind a row of barrels beside a storefront, breathing labored, then untied the bulging grey sack around her neck. She cradled it, then opened it. She smiled. Fresh loaves, pillowed upon each other, sat secure. She inhaled. It was like a bakery at dawn. Her stomach rumbled.

Fizzle peeked around the barrels. She tied her parcel and patted it.

“They’re good loaves, aren’t they, urchin?”

Fizzle froze. She lifted her eyes. The baker, a broad, brown earth pony, peered from above the barrels, gaze concentrated contempt. Fizzle dodged left, but he intercepted her.

“No, no. Hand it over and then we’ll go talk to the constable,” the baker said.

Fizzle tensed. She looked aside. Across the road a blue colt waved. Fizzle smirked.

The baker extended his hoof. “C’mon, then.”

Fizzle wrapped the sack with her magic, lifted it toward him, then tossed it over his head. He cursed, and as he watched it, Fizzle darted. She ducked around a corner and peeked. He’d taken the bait. The blue colt, Spring Rain, sack in aura, galloped away, and the baker pursued.

Fizzle cut streets; she ran several blocks from the main road, turned down an alleyway, and climbed concealed stairs. She was in an old, wooden house overlooking a blind alley. She ducked by the window and watched. Moments later, Spring Rain entered the alley, followed by the panting baker. He paused at the high wall punctuating the inlet and turned. The baker smiled as he caught his breath.

“Alright now. Just hand over the bread and come with me,” he said.

Fizzle poked her head from the window, catching Spring Rain’s attention, then nodded. Spring Rain tossed the sack upward. Fizzle grabbed it in her aura.

“What! You!” said the baker, then Glitter Drops slammed into him from behind. He stumbled forward, then fell, face first, over Spring Rain, who’d crouched before his forelegs. “Oof!” Both giggled and fled. Fizzle smiled, too, then sprinted from the old house. She saw her friends running down the main road. They were fast, faster than her. They turned into an alley.

Tempest entered after him. She slowed. His back was to a stone wall; he was watching her approach.

“So, what now?” Tempest said. “Does your friend appear and save you?” She looked to either side. There were wooden balconies, some with clothes, others with small junk piles. “Need I guess your next move?”

The child was quivering. He pressed to the stone. Tempest stopped; eyes narrow. “What are you planning?”

“Stop! Wait!” a small voice said behind her. Tempest turned. It was the pudgy child. He panted hard, carrying her coin purse. “You can have your bits back.”

Tempest tilted her head. He waddled to her and offered the pouch. She took it. Then he stood between her and his friend. He looked at her, eyes defiant. “Leave us alone, okay? We’re sorry.”

Tempest lifted the pouch. It felt full. She looked to the boys. They were a spook away from peeing themselves. She looked at the pouch and flicked her tail.

“Fine,” she said. She tucked the pouch beneath her cloak and then stepped aside. “Go.”

The children shared a look, then skittered from the alley.

When Tempest returned to Sheldon’s cart, he was showing her cloak to a gryphon.

“Oh yes, it belonged to a very important guardsmare, you know. One of a kind. But for you, I can let it go for, say, thirty bits. I’ll even throw in this fine bobblehead!” He produced the miniature Celestia. Its head sagged. “Free of charge, of course.”

Tempest tapped his shoulder. He jumped, then looked at her. He was sweaty for a turtle.

“Oh, you’re back!” Sheldon said. He looked to the gryphon. “Sorry, this item’s already been sold. You know what they say about sleeping on a deal: Don’t.” He passed the cloak to Tempest. She wrapped herself in it and pulled the hood over her head.

The gryphon rolled her eyes. She walked away, to the next stall. Sheldon turned to Tempest. “Uh, don’t mind that. Just a little haggling. I wasn’t really going to sell your cloak.”

Tempest was silent for a moment; she let him squirm. Then she looked up—the sun was setting. “Your offer stands?” she asked.

“Oh, of course,” Sheldon said. “Best deal in town, you know. But, uh, any reason in particular you want to go to Klugetown?”

“I need an airship,” Tempest said. She reached into her cloak and withdrew her coin purse. She opened it and then clenched her jaw. It was full of rocks. She flipped it, letting them spill.

“Oh, that won’t do. I don’t take rocks. Now my uncle Tortimer, he takes everything. Rocks, shells, driftwood…”

Tempest crushed a rock.

“Now calm down. I’m sure we can work something out,” Sheldon said. He stroked his mandible, good eye examining her. “How about this: I let you tag along on the road to Kluegtown and in exchange you act as my bodyguard.”

“Maybe I’ll walk.”

“No, no, no. You don’t want to do that.” Sheldon held up his claws. “The Sothern Dunes are uncrossable on hoof and claw.”

“I’ve crossed them before,” Tempest said.

“You have?” Sheldon said, single eye wide. He shook it off. “Regardless, you can’t now. It’s mating season for sand worms, you know.”

“And?”

“And unless you’d like a trip through a worm’s stomach, you’re going to want one of these.” Sheldon gripped the beige tarp. “Behold: Scuzz!” He pulled it away, revealing a sleeping, gem hide basilisk—a giant crocodile with a stone shell. “Ahem. Scuzz!” Sheldon swept his arm, a dramatic gesture. The creature was undisturbed. “Uh, one second.” He lifted his hat, removed a bit, and waved it above the creature’s nose. It sniffed, growled, then parted its silvery fangs. Sheldon dropped the bit. Scuzz chewed it, then snarled. It shifted, scales crackling, tail sweeping, and opened a single slitted eye.

“Your pet?” Tempest asked.

“Traveling Companion.” Sheldon patted Scuzz’s hide. “Best trained basilisk in the Southern Dunes.”

“And you’re sure it can get us to Kluegtown?”

“Don’t doubt me, young mare.” Sheldon said.

Tempest watched Scuzz for a moment. He seemed sluggish, like an overfed cat. His legs looked too short. His spines were stone spires, sharp and, Tempest imagined, heavy, and his every blink was a protracted affair, as though it were a bigger nuisance than conjunctivitis. She sighed. “Fine.”

Sheldon hitched Scuzz to the wagon. “I knew you couldn’t refuse. Too good an offer. Now, hop in back if you’re ready. Today’s been slow anyway.”

Tempest found the wagon’s rear door. It had a small window above an engraved turtle shell. She opened it. Inside were cabinets and shelves stuffed to bursting, and a number of boxes and chests and wagon parts. And in the center was a skinny mat, almost enough space for sleeping. Almost. Tempest closed the door. She went front. Sheldon was on the perch, reins in claw. Tempest sat beside him.

“Now, now, young mare. Don’t worry about old Sheldon. I don’t need the company.”

Tempest glanced at him. “I prefer the open air.”

“Well then, we’re off.” Sheldon whipped the reins. “Yah!”

Scuzz shifted and hissed.

“C’mon, Scuzz! Let’s get moving,” Sheldon said. “He’s always a bit sluggish after his naps.” He whipped the reins again. Scuzz snapped at air.

“Maybe you should incentivize him,” Tempest said.

“An excellent idea,” Sheldon said. He reached behind the perch and withdrew a long pole, on the end of which hung a silver ingot. “His favorite,” Sheldon said. He lowered it to Scuzz’s snout.

Scuzz sniffed, growling. He stood and waddled forward slowly. It was motion in a minimalist sense. Scuzz pulled them up the road. Creatures moved aside, some greeting Sheldon. Tempest watched an old mare stumble along beside them. Then the old mare was outpacing them. Tempest looked forward.

“Yep, no better way to travel,” Sheldon said. “And smooth too. Like sailing a calm sea.” The wagon bumped, giving them a toss. Sheldon muttered something about Stormport’s road quality.

Tempest watched the sky. The sun was dipping below the horizon. She pulled her cloak tight, then closed her eyes. She fell asleep.

In her dreams, she saw her friends. They had little, but they fed themselves, housed themselves, loved themselves. They were their own parents—each other’s parents.

Glitter Drops had a ball; her last toy. Then it was a sack of bread. Then it was a bag of bits. It was so large. Was it larger than the sun? Maybe it was the sun. She threw the sun to Fizzle, but she threw too hard. The sun rolled into a cave. And then the world went dark.

Chapter 2

Howling awoke Tempest. And rumbling reminiscent of an earthquake. The wagon creaked and groaned as it rattled along craggy road. They were in a rocky pass, high cliffs on either side. The sparse brush swayed whenever a dry wind blew. It kicked up dust like a million needles on her face. She turned aside and let it pelt her cloak instead. Between gusts, Tempest scanned the cliffs. She detected movement, but only caught moonlit shadows.

Sheldon glanced between her and the road. “This part’s always been a bit of an adventure,” he said. “But don’t worry. Scuzz knows this path like the back of his… Well, like the back of his eyelids.”

Tempest looked at Scuzz. His eyes privileged silver over road. She sat upright and squinted. If Scuzz knew the trail, it was by some sense other than sight. What was untouched by moonlight was impenetrable.

They came to a bend. It hugged a chasm. Sheldon twisted the reins and Scuzz brushed the wall as he squeezed around it. The wagon tilted, and kissed the precipice every bump. Tempest looked into the depths. The moon illuminated a rocky outcropping. She tucked her snout into her cloak hem. Wood scraped stone, like claws on a tree. Sheldon grumbled about varnish, then flicked the reins.

“C’mon, Scuzz. Almost there,” he said. He leaned forward. Tempest mirrored him. The wagon hit a large stone and jolted and snapped. Tempest pressed her hooves against the perch. She looked back; one of the axels now scraped along chasm’s edge, wheel missing. “Bah,” Sheldon said. He whipped the reins. Scuzz growled and hugged the wall. The wagon dragged, then arighted on its remaining wheels like a three-legged chair. Scuzz continued pulling off-center until the path cricked, snaked, then straightened.

They exited the bend. Sheldon pulled Scuzz’s reins. “Woah!” He lifted the silver from Scuzz’s nose. The latter halted, and the wagon lopsided toward its missing wheel. “Surf take me. Hold on there.” Sheldon hopped from the perch. He inspected the broken wheel. After a few minutes, he disappeared into the wagon. Tempest heard disgruntled clattering; pots, drawers, cabinets, glass. Sheldon reemerged, hammer and iron rod in one claw, spare wagon wheel in the other. “Give me a bit of time and I’ll have the old girl rolling like new.” He set to work, splintering away what of the old wheel remained.

Tempest rolled her eyes. She looked skyward. The moon was well established; it was past midnight. She watched the cliff-top shadows. One moved. Tempest frowned. “Can you work faster?” she said.

“Never rush a craftsman,” Sheldon said. With a rock, his iron rod, and the law of the lever, he lifted his wagon.

Tempest left her seat and walked ahead of Scuzz. The basilisk clicked. His attention was on the cliffs too. Tempest swiveled her ears. A crunch. A rustle. Padding echoed on stone like an army of paws. And then loud pounding. Tempest jumped. She rounded on Sheldon; he was hammering the spare wheel in place. “Quiet!” she hissed.

“What?” yelled Sheldon. He stopped hammering. Tempest raised her hoof and listened. Scuzz shifted, still watching the cliffs. A silent minute passed and then Tempest lowered her hoof.

“We need to get moving,” Tempest said. “Now.”

“What’s the fuss? It’s only a little—”

Three, snarling masses leapt from the stone onto Scuzz. Sheldon yelped. Tempest cursed. Her horn crackled; the light revealed a stone wolf. And then she kicked its head. It flew from Scuzz, but its companions remained. They clawed and gnashed. Much of their assault glanced from Scuzz’s spikey shell, but some tore into his neck, his abdomen, his legs. Scuzz flailed and snapped, and the wagon rocked with him.

Tempest jumped over Scuzz and brought her hindleg down atop the second beast. Its head cracked and it detached from Scuzz’s side. The third snarled, then pounced at her. Tempest’s forehoof met its lower jaw. It reeled backward and smacked the cliff wall. Scuzz made a high-pitched noise, somewhere between a squeal and a hiss, and darted forward.

“H-hey, wait!” Sheldon said. He scooped up his materials and pursued. Tempest made to follow, then stopped. The wolves melded into stone. Then they wrenched from the ground like corpses from graves and intercepted her.

Tempest dropped her hood. They lunged.

Fizzle screamed. The ursa’s claw shattered stone, missing her by inches. Her hornlight wavered—fear fogged her concentration. The cave floor was slick. Fizzle slipped and slid into the wall. She winced, rubbing the back of her head.

Rowrooo!

Fizzle’s eyes shot wide. She hopped aside a second before the ursa’s claws took a chunk from the wall. She scurried past the creature and gasped. Glitter’s ball was wedged between two stalagmites. Fizzle ran for it, but a claw slammed before her. She looked up. The ursa stood above her, its starry hide illuminated by hornlight. It lifted its claw again. Fizzle dove through the stalagmites and freed the ball. The beast’s wide swipe splintered stone behind her. She rolled to a halt, pelted by fragments. She looked at the ball clutched between her forehooves, then to the cave entrance.

Raarooo!

Fizzle took the ball in her aura and bulleted. The ursa flailed, shaking the cave. She held the ball aloft. She avoided the ursa’s claws again, and then a third time, looking over her shoulder. Then her forehoof snagged a stone and she tumbled. Away bounced Glitter’s ball. Fizzle cried out, then relit her horn. She caught the ball when it bounded from the wall. And then she was smacked. Hard. The world cartwheeled. Her body numbed. She hit the ground, but the cave continued rotating. Her right eye stung, as though somepony were scrubbing it with soap.

Fizzle rolled to her hooves. She wobbled as she stood. She tried to open her right eye, but air was a razor blade against her cornea. She squeezed it shut. She looked for Glitter’s ball; it was at the cave mouth. Fizzle tried to lift it with her aura, but it was like lifting a mountain. She tried again, straining. Sparks showered her muzzle. She wobbled, confused, dizzy, then collapsed. Warm, wet air bathed her back. She froze.

The ursa pressed its nose into her spine. It was sniffing her, like a dog to a dead squirrel. Tears streamed down her face. Fizzle tried to be still. She tried to clench her chattering teeth, to relax her trembling muscles, to slow her frantic breathing. She tried pretending she was dead, but she was too afraid of dying. And when she felt its teeth graze her coat, she screamed.

The ursa recoiled, then raised its paw. Head aside, Fizzle saw it in slow motion. It was going to crush her. She closed her eyes, panicked, and channeled magic, begged her horn to work. Then she felt a force, free and indescribable. It flooded her head like sinuses ready to burst. Blinding light penetrated her lids. The ursa cried, and she heard it stumble and stomp and flee deeper into the cave. And then the light faded.

The wolves escaped into stone. Sparks fell from Tempest’s horn stump like snowflakes. She spit blood, then readjusted her cloak. She waited. When sure they’d departed, she ran after Scuzz and Sheldon.

She found them where the cliffs parted for open desert, about fifteen minutes down the path. Sheldon was on a rock, pipe in jaw. Scuzz loosed a clicking hiss as Tempest approached. Sheldon raised his eye to her.

“You live,” he said.

Tempest nodded.

“That’s more than I can say for my wagon.” He gestured toward it. The sides were like stripped trees, the replacement wheel was gone, and one of the remaining wheels was missing spokes. “I expected better when I hired you.”

“You… What?” Tempest said, muscles tightening.

“You’re supposed to guard me and my property.”

“I have.”

“And a poor job at that,” he scoffed.

Tempest raised her brow. She moved to the wagon, stroked the wood panel and then touched the bare axel. “Do you have another spare?”

Sheldon stood, grumbled, and picked up his tools. “Sure don’t.”

Tempest entered the wagon. She grabbed an old hub, a few spokes, and some felloes.

“I’d have been better off traveling alone,” Sheldon continued as Tempest returned and began aligning spokes to the hub. “All the same with youth: Complain about everything, only want handouts, but have no drive. Back in my day we knew how to get things done.”

Tempest slid a few spokes in place.

“And what do I get for being generous?” He threw up his claws. “Boiled seaweed.”

Tempest sized up a felloe.

“That’ll teach me. Next time it’s gold only! You won’t take advantage of Sheldon P. Kappa, not on my—”

Tempest hammered in the first spoke.

“Eh? What are you up to?” Sheldon asked.

Then she hammered in the second.

Tap Tap Tap.

Fizzle followed the sound up the rocky mountain pass. It wound past a cottage tucked beneath the ridge and what looked like an open shack beside it. The land around the cottage was sloped scree.

Tap Tap Tap.

There was a creature squatted in front of a wagon wheel, hammering a thin metal tire to its felloes. Fizzle paused, fixed her hood, then paced forward. The creature was larger than the average pony, wrapped in some kind of white robe and sandal shod. Its mane and beard were salt-and-pepper, and it held its hammer in flexible claws. It was facing her, but its eyes were on its work.

Tap Tap… Clink.

It dropped its hammer and peered along the rim. Then its eyes fell on her. It showed cool consideration, then lifted its hammer, rotated the wheel and began on the next section.

Fizzle approached, ears back. It continued hammering.

“Excuse me,” she squeaked. “A-are you…”

It paused, then looked at her. Her voice caught.

“Uh… um,” she stammered.

It stretched its claw toward her. She shut her eyes.

“Plane,” he said, voice like rumbling earth.

She opened one. “What?”

He pointed. Fizzle followed his claw to the knob-topped flat tool by her hooves. She passed it to him. He began smoothing the felloes.

“You can fix anything?” Fizzle asked.

He blew wood shavings and rotated the wheel.

Fizzled widened her stance. “I need you to fix my horn,” she blurted.

He paused. His eyes gripped her. He studied her a moment, then returned to his work. “Don’t be a fool.”

Fizzle gaped. He flipped the wheel and set his plane to the obverse.

Fizzle looked at her hooves. She sat, then lowered her hood, exposing her horn stump to mountain air. “I came from the valley.”

He stood the wheel and examined it. “Land o’ fools.”

“They said you can help me.”

“Nay.”

“But they said—"

He turned to her, expression hard. “Your hearin’ broke too?”

Fizzle clinched her jaw. “You have to!” she snapped, meeting his eyes. She held them, willed herself steady. His gaze was a fading fire. Moments passed. He broke eye contact first. He returned to his wheel.

“If you don’t…” Fizzle continued and dropped her eyes. “A unicorn without a horn is…”

“Can’t be me. You got t’fix yerself,” he said.

“I-I can’t…”

He was silent. He rose. He lifted his wheel and disappeared into his cottage.

Fizzle lowered her head. She waited.

The day crested; the night came. Wind whipped through her cloak and the mountain whistled. Smoke puffed from the cabin’s stone chimney. Then the door opened. Fizzle lifted her eyes.

“You ought t’be gettin home,” he said. He held a wooden bowl.

Fizzle lifted her hood. She remained.

“Parents are likely worried about y’”

Fizzle shook her head.

He approached and then set the bowl beside her. The soup smelled of vegetables and spices. Then he went inside and shut the door.

Fizzle drank the soup. It tasted like tomato and basil. It warmed her. And then she found fitful sleep. And when the sun rose the next morning, she was still there. She awoke when he exited his cottage. His sleeves were rolled up.

He walked toward the shack, then stopped. “Well. This way.” Then he entered.

Fizzle followed him. The shack was a smithy. Hammers and tongs lined the wall beside a coal bin, and there was an anvil and a stool near the room’s center, behind which was a wide clay forge. And beside the forge were stacked shelves lined with ingots and rods arranged higgledy-piggledy.

He shoveled coal atop the forge then set it alight with a striker. Then he took a skinny iron rod and examined it.

Fizzle stood by the anvil until he called her closer. She approached the forge.

“Pump the bellows,” he said and indicated dual wind bags at its base. Then he buried half the rod in coal near forge center.

Fizzle pressed the bellows in alternation, both forehooves engaged. Coals flared and heat prickled her face like an open oven.

“That’ll do,” he said, then gripped the rod with tongs. The front half glowed bright orange. He rested it on the anvil, gripped a hammer, and pounded it into a spike. Then when the orange dulled, he returned it to the coals. Fizzle pumped the bellows. He nodded.

They rotated twice more. Then he tapered the rod against anvil’s edge, weakened the neck, and snapped off the pointed end. He plunged it into the water.

Fizzle put her nose over the bucket. When he withdrew it, she looked askance. “What is it?”

“Nail,” he said, examining the point.

“What does that have to do with my horn?”

He gave her a curious look. “S’got nothing to do with that.”

“W-what?” Fizzle gawked.

He pointed at the bellows. “Payment for the soup.”

“WHAT?” Fizzle yelled.

“Shishō?”

Both looked to the entrance. Peeking in was a pony, although an odd one. She had a blue coat, and snowy mane that looked like it belonged on a lion. Her muzzle bridge and her back had dark blue scales, and her horn was split like a tree branch. She was young; maybe a few years older than Fizzle.

“Who is this?” she pointed at Fizzle. Her accent was heavy.

He took another iron rod and placed it in the coals. “New apprentice.”

“Huh?” Fizzle protested.

Then the new pony was in her face. “She’s strong?”

He withdrew the iron rod and placed it to the anvil. Then he gave Fizzle the hammer. She hesitated, gripping it between her hooves. She looked to him, then to the new pony. The latter tilted her head. Then Fizzle gripped the handle between her teeth. She hopped on the stool, eyed the orange glow, and swung.

The last hit secured hub to axel. The wheel was in place.

Sheldon lowered the wagon on his makeshift lever. He wiped sweat from his brow. He was sweaty for a turtle. He grunted. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Tempest pressed her hoof to the wheel. It was steady. She gave Sheldon his hammer. Then she approached Scuzz. His neck craned toward her. He hissed. She put her hoof on his back. And then his serpentine tongue was against her cheek. She pet him, then looked toward Sheldon.

She was quiet a moment. Then she lowered her head.

“My father.”

Tempest climbed into the perch and pulled her cloak taught around her armor.

Sheldon scratched his scalp beneath his hat, then sat beside her.

“Yah!” He whipped Scuzz’s reins. And then they rode into the desert.