I've Got Only My Bones

“1-2-3 steps to the royal throne… Raise your flag, march on – fight...” I sing to myself quietly as I stand watch besides the door. There’s a canopy above, keeping the snow from falling and dusting my poncho. I heard this song once, some years ago in an obscure bar as it was played by a band I have never heard of before or since, and I didn’t catch most of the lyrics, but I still recall the music just fine. The next few lines I sing are nonsense words that sound about right because someone was talking loudly when I heard this section. “Wars and swords, tears and blood...” I would give a lot of my material possessions to hear the song one more time, to hear it properly. But I doubt I will ever get the opportunity.

“Hey! Good day to make a mess, isn’t it?” An orange pegasus cries as she spots me waiting. She’s wearing a heavy coat to let her march through the snowfall without issue, and somehow hers is as beaten and dirty as mine.

“I suppose so.” I reply. Her name is Grew Some, and I don’t like her. She’s loud and boorish, but the part I can’t stand is that, as a Hellknight, her sadistic streak shines as bright as day and I suspect she’s still hiding its depths then. She, however, has lived in this city all her life and has a lot of strange friends in strange places.

She practically bounces up to me. “Come on, P, don’t hide it. I know you don’t mind killing. Remember when you popped that bug in the head? Cold-blooded! You should have gone for the leg, though, let me- I mean us, heh, enjoy him.” She slaps me on the shoulder in a way that’s supposed to come off as friendly.

“This is my job.” I reply.

“We aren’t paying you,” She contests. “And how’s that quote go? ‘If you’re good at something you shouldn’t do it for free’, or something? Just saying, you need to loosen up, learn to enjoy yourself. I doubt we’ll be able to play like we used to once Twilight gets here.” She loudly knocks on the metal backdoor besides me. “Hey! We’ve got a delivery of headlight fluid for you!” She cries.

The door opens after a few seconds and a grim pony annoyedly shushes her from inside. She rolls her eyes and walks down the stairs. I follow behind.

The basement is lively and smells like burnt tar. Whips of smoke roll across the ceiling after rising from the tips of cheap cigarettes. At the far end, a drug dealer sits at a table, negotiating with another pony over a small bag of powder. Most ponies who sit at tables are playing cards. Scantily-clad mares and stallions, some quite egregiously so, travel from table to table with bottles of alcohol and more.

“Ah, my dear Some!” A greasy stallion calls out as I guardedly observe the room. He comes up and does a complex hoofshake with my comrade. “Is this your new co-star? I hope so, she looks like the right type.”

Some steps in. “No, this is a business partner. EQUESTRIAN business. I need her to be… in one piece. And besides…” She turns to me. “P, this is our best friend today. He’s a small-time movie director with a specialty in, let’s just call it ‘the intersection of sex and fear’. Don’t mind his advances, he’s always stuck looking for new actors and actresses to play the role of the victim. They don’t often come back for the sequel, you see, and he can’t just blame the bugs anymore. I might be the only actress of his to be in so many of his movies.” She laughs to herself, then leans in conspiratorially. “You ought to support this local artist, you know… especially if you have a ‘special relationship with death’. I think you’d find his work very interesting.”

I cock my head at her.

“What? Thought I wouldn’t notice, girl?” The last word rolls off her tongue in an excessively friendly manner.

“No, I thought that was obvious.”

She steps back. “To you, maybe.” The greasy stallion grabs her hoof. “Now, if you don’t mind, me and my boy toy are going to go hear what’s going on. We’ll track you down when we’re done, so just entertain yourself until then. Toodles~!” She waves as he pulls her away.

I wonder if this underground club is so active because it will have to tone way the hell down once Twilight and her guards arrive. I think they can’t come soon enough.

Yes indeed, Princess Twilight Sparkle is coming with the 3rd Royal Guards Battalion to help sort out the dispute with the Hellknights one way or another. She will be arriving in one week. Normally, a paragon of divine power like a Princess would be a concern for a dark magician, but I’ve actually met Twilight before (long story), and I hope that I can use that to convince her to at least try and integrate black magic into the army. It doesn’t need to be an everypony thing, but my soul-sense can pick out changeling infiltrators from a distance with certainty, and can find any pony grave site nearby. Even if most of my abilities are either arguably useless or definitely useless against changelings, or are gross, those two are a big deal and could do a lot of good, and there are a few other nasty surprises I can whip out depending on how much I’m allowed to do.

Ideally, the entirety of the Hellknights would be integrated somewhat, and a way would be found for us to pursue the dark arts in peace without being driven mad by lust for power.

I sit down at one of the tables. “Mind if I watch?” I ask the other patrons.

“Sorry, but we would really prefer that you be a playing customer if you’re going to take up space on our fine chairs.” The dealer grumbles, lying about the quality of the seating here. “If you don’t have money… how about the clothes on your back?” He asks, smirking. “You could get a better price from me than you could just selling them, and you’d get to keep them too. You could have your cake and eat it… if you win, of course.”

I think. “Would you accept a pet? I brought by rodent friend, Deadmouse.”

“...Yeah, my son would like a new animal to play with. I’ll wager a hundred bits against your rat.” He agrees and slides over a few cards. A hundred bits is two day’s pay for me, or one day’s pay for a waiter in a dive bar. Really, I just want to sit down.

The game is blackjack, which I barely understand the rules of. I lose the first round. A mare wearing so little that I wonder how she stays warm appears behind me. “How’s it going, hun?” She asks. “I’ve got an idea for how you can spend your winnings…” She continues in her most seductive voice.

A stallion comes up on my other side in the same manner. “For how much she’s playing for, she can get either of us… or both. How does that sound?” He whispers into my ear. I wave them away. I have a lifetime’s worth of memories with Graham to entertain myself with if I am ever in such a mood. It really is a lifetime’s worth, too, and he always had new ideas for things to try, and they were always so wonderful… I catch myself before I start drooling and the prostitutes take it as a sign to keep bothering me.

As soon as I push away the happy times, the depressing thought that usually follows comes right on schedule. In retrospect, much of our birth control regimen was used incorrectly. The fact I never got pregnant in all our youthful adventures often makes me wonder if I’m sterile. That would be a shame, I think kids are nice and I often dreamt of how it would be to raise a child alongside my beloved. It’s also possible it was him who was lacking, and it’s possible it was simple fate. Who can tell now?

The grimace must have shown, because the hookers leave me then.

I proceed to win the second round, then lose every round afterwards. Of the five other gamblers, they haven’t even moved by the time I go bust, I lost that quickly. “Alright, lady, cough up the little one.” The dealer demands.

I magically reach into my pocket and drop a dead rat on the table. Everyone else recoils. “Here’s Deadmouse. I’m sad to see him go. Take good care of him.” I say as I walk away before they can complain.

Grew Some catches me wandering the bar. She walks up to me and hands me a note. “There’s a grey unicorn who lives here. Thought it would be real funny to tell the bugs what he knew about us and about the Royal Army’s fighting positions. The goons say he’s going to get just a little more info before heading home, then he’s going to pack up his things and skip town around midnight. You’re going to deal with him before he gets away. Make it bloody.” She barks, far less bubbly than before.

“I didn’t realize you were my boss.” I retort.

“I’m not, but I made an executive decision. There’s two of these pricks, and I want the other one for myself.” She states.

On the way to my room, I pick up a map and check the address she gave me. It’s a distance away, but I can make it a few hours by bike. Maybe I can borrow a car to speed it up? Probably not, I can’t drive and I wouldn’t want to get anyone else involved in such an illegal act.

I get into my room and start thinking about how I want to tackle this. I could go now and lay in ambush for him. I could leave some undead there with orders to kill him when he arrives and then go back to their graves. Then I wouldn’t even need to be there for it. I realize that I can use the opportunity to try out some kinds of undead that I’ve never actually used before. I crawl out of the comfort of the bed and check my notes in the desk. My notebooks are gone in the top drawer, and in the side drawers too. The black artifacts I left at home are also missing. All of my dark arts material has vanished. In its place is a note.

“To the unicorn who calls herself ‘Pernicious Poison’

By now you have noticed that we took the liberty of relieving you of your evil works. They are illegal to own, you know. Right now, we are considering giving them to a certain SMILE agent who is currently hunting a group of supposed dark magicians, too, just to make sure that this crisis is brought to an end. We are sure that he will prosecute and inquisite against such beings with all the resources he has, and with maximum prejudice. It would be so embarassing for the agency to discover it was paying off an evil necromancer, it’s the only way they can atone.

We can be convinced to change our minds, though. Come to the address listed on the other side by 10:00 PM and we will discuss your relationship with a certain group of partisans and come to a mutually-beneficial agreement. If you do not come, or if you do and then you refuse to work with us, we will do what we have to for the good of the country and the suppression of evil magic. We are sure you will understand that this evidence puts us in a sensitive position.

Sincerely, certain patriots”

My jaw drops. I check the address and rush back to my map. It’s about as far away as the deserter is, but in nearly the opposite direction. I take a deep breath. There must by a solution to this.

By now it’s the afternoon. If I ride like the wind, I can go to either place in three hours, then get to the other place in four. That will give me just enough time to reach both… assuming I do absolutely nothing, just get there and turn around. Summoning a burning skull will take at least an hour without my staff, and I will want to be long gone by the time the target arrives. And how long will the changelings want to talk to me? Is it even the changelings? Who else could think it's a good idea to blackmail a necromancer in a warzone?

They can’t be drawing me out to kill me. They could simply give this stuff to Hay and do 90% of the goal with 10% the effort. At least there’s that.

And going to talk to them isn’t a problem since after a week everyone will know I’m a necromancer anyways. All I need to do is stall and then it won’t matter.

The loss of my dark magic notes isn’t truly great either. A few years ago, I won a large amount of prize money in a computer science contest. That was actually how I met Twilight Sparkle the first time, and it was a very nasty surprise to find her as one of the judges, but she got over her prejudices and admitted that, yes, technically the brain-in-a-jar computer was the first entrant to meet the requirements without breaking any rules. And that’s why that competition was first won anonymously and now has rules against using body parts in the computers, and why I ran away from Canterlot with the police hot on my hooves and a briefcase full of bits.

A large portion of the money went to a lifetime’s ownership of a safety deposit box in the griffon city of Weter. Every time I fill up a notebook, I copy it by hoof and mail the copy to be stored there. Yes, I haven’t had the opportunity to mail my work in a long time, and yes this war is the most productive I’ve ever been, but it’s still only a year and I can retread much of the old ground fairly quickly. The objects are also cheap, most of the difficulty in making them was figuring out how.

That does remind me, though – in case I lost these, I expose every Deadmouse to the notes when I create it so it can sniff them out later. I could summon some undead and have the rodent lead them to the material in question to recover them, then take some more to deal with the traitor. Except I just gambled the newest Deadmouse away and don’t have anything to give to the new one to attune its nose to what I need.

Can I only pick one side? If I refuse the changeling’s demands, I’ll be run out of town within the week. That’s very bad. If I don’t deal with the traitor, then the Hellknights might never know… might… but if they do, that will be even worse. I shudder as the image pops into my mind of myself, disembowled and displayed in the park. That plan is a no-go.

So if I can get to both places at once, I’ll be fine, but if not, I might die.

Deadmouse pops into my head again and I realize that that idea is not bad. That does let me solve both problems at once. And even if I have to be there in the flesh to deal with the bugs, I don’t need the same thing to deal with the traitor. A plan forms in my head. The details work themselves out even as I break into a run out of the hotel.

I bolt into a grocery store, past the greeter, in between two ponies having a conversation about the impending royal visit, and go straight for two aisles in particular. I don’t care who sees me as I tear a pack of marker pens off the shelf, then run for the spice aisle and take a few specific bottles. An attendant tries to ask me what I’m doing but I shoulder them out of the way and keep running. I hop back on my bike outside as they watch me in confusion and pedal away.

I can’t hear, smell, or taste right now. I gave those up for the next few hours so that I could have the sense of death without losing binocular vision. I’m in too much of a hurry to be unable to see where I’m going. It’s quick and dirty, but I need speed. Even my new plan to get out of this isn’t foolproof.

I spot two small spirit-lights underneath a dumpster a few houses away and hop off by bike once more. They try to hide from me. It seems like a waste, but my last artifact expends the weeks of energy I gave it so long ago to, within seconds, give a heart attack to a rat. Its companion feels the evil that the spell left behind and tries to scamper, but I grab it in my normal magic and, hesitating for only a second, stomp on its head, letting the death flow through me and into the rat that’s still intact. It crawls out from under the dumpster and scampers up my sleeve as quickly as possible. I wipe the blood off on a discarded newspaper as best as I can and go back onto my journey.

Whenever I come to a straightaway, I pull out markers from the pack and draw a roundabout set of directions on my map of Tall Tale. Once that is done, I start writing down street names on my sleeve.

Exactly as I remembered, there’s a mass grave here. I’ve been riding for nearly two hours and reach my goal. This is how I’m going to make it.

I sprinkle the spices around in geometric patterns and sit in the middle of the pentagram I’ve drawn. The knowledge of the world recedes as I open myself up to my own soul. As fast as I can, I reach under the dirt with my spirit, wrapping around the remains. For this, I need either more material or more time to raise zombies. There’s another compromise to be made.

Nearly an hour passes without me noticing, I’m so entranced by the work of the ritual that everything passes into the background. Skeletal hooves punch through the ground and pull out Equestrian soldiers who have had their flesh melted off by the forceful injection of life.

The books describe skeletons as “smart”, but that’s not the whole story. Zombies are as smart as their Mistress is. Skeletons are hasty, imperfect summons that have residue from the surrounding world in their false spirits. They have the wrong kind of agency. In this case, “smart” doesn’t mean “clever”, it means “mouthy”. I am reminded why I don’t normally use them when one steps forward, his ragged uniform standing strong and his rusty rifle still hanging at his side, and barks “WHADDYA WANT?”

I hand him the map with the path drawn on it. My markings, if I’m correct, will lead them to their target’s house with as little time as possible spent in populated areas where they are likely to be seen. “You need to go to the address marked at the bottom. Take this path and try not to be spotted, but if you aren’t in danger of that, run as fast as you can. There should be a grey unicorn here. If he’s not there, wait for him. Once you find him, tear him into pieces, then trace your steps back to get here so you can be re-buried. Any questions?”

“Nya, yeah I gotta question for yah.” The skeleton steps forward. “Who made you the boss lady?”

“Me, when I raised you and decided not to put you back in the ground for annoying me. I don’t care what you do as long as you follow my instructions. I’m in a hurry, so if that simple set of steps is too much for you, you’ll just have to figure it out yourself!” I shout.

The skeletons all look at each other quickly. Another one pipes up. “Hmm, yeah, we’ll do it.” They salute in unison and run off, hooves pounding. As soon as they’re off, I hop on my bike and get going in my own direction.

My path takes me through a series of rural plantation houses, the kind which are elegant and overrated rather than run-down and overrated. This is country club country.

As I bike, I skid to a stop and look. The directions on my sleeve are running from the fabric rubbing against itself, and they weren’t particularly great when I first wrote them either, and since I don’t have a watch I can only ride like the wind and hope that the times I slow down to make sure I’m going the right way aren’t adding up. Yet I’m willing to lose a few seconds to make sure I see what I see.

It’s the evening of winter and the sun is going down. A short distance from the road, there is a fenced-in court. Two figures in heavy coats are swinging around racquets as the ball they’re playing with bounces against a stucco wall on the far end with pronounced cracks. One of them, unless I am sorely mistaken, is Prince.

He notices me staring. I see his face like I have every week for nearly two months. It’s him. He motions with his eyes that I should get moving. We aren’t in a meeting, so we don’t know each other. I turn and keep riding.

So that’s the kind of creature who plays racquetball.

The number on the townhouse’s mailbox matches the one I have written down. I do my best to put up my bike and take a second to breath without it being obvious how strained I am. It feels as if ice-cold needles are running down my nose and into my throat as I inhale the cold night air. I’m sweating from the exertion like I’m shaking from the wind chill.

I knock on the front door. A cheerful stallion lets me into the living room where his friends are waiting for me. He looks so boring, his mane style uninspired and his clothes generic, every part of his body eerily close to the median. Supposedly, creatures who are excessively dull are the ones changelings prefer to imitate. If your eyes glaze over just by looking at them, you’ll be hard-pressed to notice what they’re doing without a reason to give it a second glance. Or so the story goes. I figured it was security theater, but maybe it was true. His companions are all as plain as he is in different ways, and I notice that they’re all wearing clothes with ample room to hide firearms.

Once the warmth of the inside washes over me, I open the conversation. “I believe you have some things which belong to me.”

“You don’t want to hear our proposition first?” The one who opened the door asks confidently.

I look into his eyes. “No.”

He shrugs and reaches into an end table, pulling out all the books I had lost. The rest of the missing items are “hidden” behind the couch, not even covered by a blanket. I didn’t expect the VOPS to recruit from theater schools.

I take a few of the items, a wand here or a notebook there, and flip through them. They’re mine alright. I even put my hoof on them to make sure they feel right, and certainly not to let the newest member of the Deadmouse line get a sniff from just up my sleeve. “Hm. And I suppose you aren’t going to give this back?”

The disguised changeling takes my notebooks back from me and puts them onto the table. A smile creeps onto his face, and an unbearable smugness becomes the sole feature I can pay attention to. “Nope. You’re ours now. One day, we’ll need you, and you would do best to remember what can happen to you if you turn us down.”

“Just because you have my things doesn’t mean I’m your pet.” I retort.

He sits down and kicks his legs up. “You know, I was thinking. You’ve changed identities at least a dozen times by now, right? Do you even remember them all? That SMILE retard might not be harsh enough on you. Arsenic in the coffee, so dull. I bet I could start bringing up all the unsolved cases of the past few years, have an angry mob on you in minutes. Justice, traditional-style. Think about it – would you enjoy being mercilessly beaten and hanged for the entertainment of a crowd of ponies as much as I would enjoy watching it happen?”

One of the others in the room smiled dumbly as if he was transported back to a happier time. The third one seems unimpressed. “I suppose you have a point. I will need my notes to work my art, you know.” I complain.

“Guess you’ll just have to do things like a normal pony for a while.” My newest friend smirks. “Actually, there is one thing you could do for us at this time...”

I stare up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I’ve been too shaken up by the day’s events, the horror of which only settled in recently. It’s not like I betrayed the Hellknights in any meaningful way. I told the bug everything I knew about the composition of our specific cell. He already knew that. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have asked. His goal was most likely to see whether I was going to trick him or not.

Something else is what terrifies me. He knew what our cell looked like. He also knew my daily routine so that his buddies could waylay me. In retrospect, I should have moved after the ambush, but that’s besides the point. He also knew when I joined, and when his fellow agent failed to infiltrate and failed to kill me, he knew that too. He’s getting up-to-date information on our internal affairs.

My report to Mr. Hay left out a hell of a lot of details. I hope he doesn’t get mad when he finds out.

Celestia, why did I get involved in any of this? Could it possibly be worth it? Whether I’m in a fine restaurant or in the hotel bed, I am surrounded by comforts so overwhelmingly pleasant that it’s uncanny, and yet all signs point to me having made a terrible mistake, one which will end very poorly for me. I’ll be thirty soon enough, and the most likely way I’m going to celebrate is by mouldering in a shallow grave after being tortured to death, having never experienced days as precious as those few so long ago.

The good news is that this charade doesn’t have to last much longer.