The Rise and Fall of the Dark Lord Sassaflash

Chapters

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22

Chapter 1

Wanted: Minion. Applicants should be strong, loyal, pain tolerant, cold tolerant, unambitious. Must be capable of following simple instructions. Ideal applicant should be of low to average intelligence and mildly deformed, but exceptions will be made for extraordinary candidates, with extraordinariness to be determined by employer. Must be willing to begin work immediately.

Remuneration will be in the form of room, board, and insight into the true nature of the cosmos. Extremely generous bonuses up to and including subcontinents may be awarded if merited and if circumstances permit. Interviews for the position to be conducted at 108 Haybale Lane at 10:00 AM sharp on 4/7. Applicants are expected to be punctual.

—The Dark Lord Sassaflash

It was morning in Ponyville, and the shifting sounds of local life danced from squeak to whistle to clank to clatter in cheerful aimlessness. There was no rhythm to it, no beat, no planned and calculated goal; it was simply the sound of life being lived, drifting along in its artless, happy way and weaving itself into a medley of disharmonious harmonies.

At length, a new noise began to drift in amongst the other sounds. Distant hooves thudded out an awkward beat, faint but very distinct, and the carefree disorder of Ponyville reached out to take in this new rhythm and thread it into the town's music—but then something went wrong. The friendly clink of wind chimes, extending itself in the hopes of settling into a nice 7:2 beat with the newcomer, tripped over a hoofbeat that should have come half a second earlier and blundered headfirst into the yipping of a small dog. The hum of the marketplace faltered. That shouldn't have happened. It was a game trier, though, so it rallied itself and tried again.

A tap came where there should have been a thud.

For some strange reason, the rattle of wooden cart wheels no longer seemed to mesh quite so melodiously with the operatic bellowing of the salespony hawking his latest shipment of futons. The susurration of noise filling the Ponyille—

A hoofbeat planted itself firmly into the sound of the plaza fountain and sent it careening sideways, reeling drunkenly through a whole host of other noises.

—The susurration of sound—of noise—

Another set of taps and clacks, none falling exactly how or when they should. There was a tense, shivering moment as the music of the town clung to itself, and for a moment it seemed it might manage to hold together—but then the great town bell, which hadn't really been paying attention, boomed out the hour. Normally the interruption would have been easily endured, but now? Chaos.

Dogs barked, voices yammered, metal clanked, birds screeched, all clashing together as each struggled to harmonize with the dull, not-quite-rhythmic hoofbeats of the creature who had just plodded into the marketplace. His coat was gray and uneven, his knees knobbly, his snout hairless and pink, and his eyes rheumy. The newcomer trundled to a halt in the midst of the marketplace, one of his long, hairy ears drooping down for no apparent reason, and he executed a sort of shuffling half-turn to peer around at his surroundings. He sighed, shifted his old bones into motion again, and trudged over to two mares gossiping by a turnip stall. They didn’t notice his approach at first and continued chatting, and as he drew near he caught a fragment of their conversation.

“—Well you know, enough is enough. I’m a patient pony, I hope, but he’s just so mule-headed, that one. Why, I…”

The speaker, a well-groomed mare with a curling mane like a candied orange peel, trailed off as she noticed the gangling creature’s approach. Her eyes widened. The newcomer smiled—not with his mouth or with his eyes, but a private, secret little smile tucked deep away in his mind—and thought, No offense.

“No offense,” said Well-Groomed Pony.

“None taken,” said the Mule. He smiled. “Begging your pardon for the interruption, ladies, I’m sure, but do either o’ you'uns know how to get to Haybale Lane? Only I lost my map.”

The directions were a bit vague—Well-Groomed was evidently not very familiar with that part of town—but taken with what he remembered of the map, they were good enough for the old mule’s purposes. With a lop-eared nod of thanks he plodded off, scraggly tail swishing behind him. The two ponies watched him go. When she thought he was out of hearing range, Well-Groomed turned to her friend and continued, “So like I was saying, he’s completely mule-headed, and I’m just not going to put up with…”

No offense, thought the Mule, as he moved out of earshot and the rest of the mare’s diatribe sank into the raucous babble of the market. None taken.

Two wrong turns and three shortcuts later, the winding, narrow backstreet that was Haybale Lane found itself graced by the appearance of the Mule. Nopony seemed to be about; this place, shaded a deep blue-grey by the clustered buildings leaning overhead and paved with worn, moss-lined cobbles, was clearly not one of Ponyville’s most hot and happening neighborhoods. As the ungainly gray creature made his way down the lane, peering up at the lines of laundry stretched across the jagged crack of blue sky overhead, he found himself feeling a strange sense of patriotic pride as a Ponyville resident. Not many towns of fifty years, he felt, could boast a neighborhood that looked like its last timber had been set in place five hundred years earlier. Fillydelphia couldn’t manage that, he reckoned. Nor New Trottingham. He wondered whether it had been done on purpose, or had just kind of happened.

The shabby creature rolled to a stop and squinted at a mossy wooden plaque to his left. 114? That wasn’t right. With a mild chuckle at his own absentmindedness, he twisted himself around and ambled back the way he had come, paying closer attention to the houses’ numbers this time. 112, 110…Ah, there it was. 108 Haybale Lane.

The old timberframe building before him was more than a little the worse for wear. Strange and unwholesome plants clustered in little pots on the cramped stoop, iron bars had been set in the window frames, and an unseasonal whorl of foul-smelling smoke wafted its way out of a crooked chimney in to the sky above. Red ochre had been rubbed into crude glyphs etched on the timber beams, and a faint, rhythmic thudding sound, like a dragon’s heartbeat, filtered up from somewhere beneath the house.

“Hmpf,” said the Mule, with all the solemnity of a white-maned judge pronouncing a carefully considered verdict.

He lowered himself to his haunches beside the door. It was fifteen or twenty minutes yet ‘til the bell rang ten, and for all he knew this “Sassaflash” character was particular about timing. Best not to go a-knocking just yet.

So he sat and waited, and waited and sat, and Haybale Lane stood silent around him.

It was, the Mule decided at length, a sad sort of silence. There was no mystery to it, or tension, or anything else to make it noteworthy; it was just forgotten, left unseen because everypony had decided that there was nothing worth seeing there. In some far-distant day, he supposed, ponies would abandon this town, and the Wild would take it back and wash away all the meaning that they had so painstakingly given to every cottage and byway—but when it came to this place, it would halt, baffled. There would be nothing for it to do here. This little back way was already meaningless.

Which was sad. Oughtn’t to be so. He wished that somepony would walk out of one of the brooding houses or come trotting down the street, to remind this place that it existed.

By and by, somepony did. The Mule, who had gotten a bit bored, had established to his satisfaction that there were seven dresses and fifteen socks hung up to dry on the clotheslines overhead and was just about to start counting ties and saddlebags when he heard the sound of approaching hooves, clicking against the cobbles of the alley. Peering down the length of the shadowed backstreet, he saw an off-white unicorn filly come in to view, her head down and her curling mane hanging over her eyes. As she trotted she muttered, and every so often she’d pause to give some inoffensive pebble in her path a vindictive kick. It was only when she’d drawn quite near and had veered away from the center of the lane towards No. 108 that, glancing up at the house, she had noticed him at all, sitting there quietly to the side of the stoop. With a surprised squeal, the little unicorn skittered to a halt.

Inclining his head amiably, the Mule said, “Howdy-do, miss. Sorry to startle you. I’m here for to answer an advertisement done by a pony living here.”

“Oh,” said the filly, eyeing him doubtfully. Then something seemed to occur to her, and she squeaked “Oh! Is that today? Ponyfeathers!”

Without saying another word, she scampered past him up the stairs to the stoop, lowered her head, and scraped out a hurried pattern on the door with her horn. There was a faint click and the door gave slightly, upon which the little unicorn cracked it open, slipped inside, and slammed it shut again. The Mule gazed after her for a bit, shrugged, and returned his attention to the Counting of the Laundry.

Four ties, it turned out, had been hung out to dry, but sadly the exact number of saddlebags was destined to remain a mystery. A moment after the Mule had decided that the fifth saddlebag (of an unknown total) was actually some kind of hat, his tally was interrupted by the distant ringing of the town bell, tolling out the turn of the hour. With a grunt and a creak the bony creature hauled himself to his hooves. One, Two, Three, Four, tolled the bell. He twitched his drooping left ear back upright—Five, Six—and arranged himself before the herb-cluttered front door, looking as employable as he could manage.

Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten.

Right on cue, the lock clicked, the heavy wooden door creaked inwards, and a pegasus mare poked her head out of the gap, her thin, teal face wrinkled into a peeved expression. She peered up and down the street, eyes narrowed, and then demanded, “Where are the others?”

The Mule’s eyebrows rose. “The others, miss?”

“Yes.” She twitched her ears in exasperation. “The others. The other applicants. I wish to know where they are.”

“Ain’t no others, miss. Just me.” He inclined his head. “I think the bits in your advertisement about just room and board and needing to be tolerant o’ pain might’a skeert 'em, miss.”

The mare digested this for a few moments, glowering at him as though she held him personally responsible for the lackluster response, and then muttered, “Right. Fine. You’d better come in, then. I’ll need to interview you, and there are other things. A questionnaire, waivers…” She waved her left hoof vaguely. “Don’t go near any of my books, and if you see a purple-black symbol burned into a bookshelf or chair or something, don’t touch it.” Leaning outside to cast another suspicious glance up and down the street, the mare muttered something under her breath in a language that did not quite sound like Common Equine and then slipped back inside the house, shutting the door in the mule’s face.

There were several moments of silence during which the Mule remained where he sat, a bemused expression on his face. At length the door swung open with a petulant little creak, and the pegasus peered out and snapped, “I said you’d better come in. You can operate a door, I suppose? That shiny thing is a latch. It turns.”

“Yes miss, only I—“

“Good.” Slam.

The sound echoed and died amongst the tall, leaning houses, losing itself in gray-blue shadows and malnourished sunbeams. Haybale Lane drifted back into placid silence.

“Well now,” mused the Mule. “I do believe she’s a loon.”

Raising a hoof, he scratched absently at one of his ears, while the lair (such as it was) of the Dark Lord Sassaflash loomed above him, waiting. He could turn away. Miss Carrot Top would be needing help with her harvest soon, and until then the grass around Ponyville wasn’t so tough to the tooth, and the bank under the West Ponyville bridge wasn’t so cold. Not so cold at all. He’d roughed it before.

With a whuffing chuckle, the Mule shook himself and trotted up the vine-strewn steps to the door. His life had been a mite dull lately, and a little looniness would do him good. Besides, he never had liked roughing it. The door drifted open under the gentle pressure of his hoof, and he ambled inside.

Every autumn, the Mule begin saving up bits for his annual Hearth’s Warming visit to Canterlot to visit friends and family. He liked walking through the snowy streets at night, his neck wrapped in five or six scarves and a festive hat perched jauntily atop his head, and taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the holiday season. Sometimes the locals got a mite uptight when they saw him strolling along through their fine city, his body all knobbles and his legs all bones, but that, he felt, was their concern and not his. The fact was, the Mule had never spent a moment of his life feeling out of place. His body might not always do exactly what he wanted it to, but it was tough enough in its ramshackle way and any spot where ponies lived—or where donkeys lived, or griffons, or cows or sheep or diamond dogs or dragons—was somewhere he could call home. So long as he wasn’t on fire or wasn’t drowning, he figured that wherever he was was exactly where he ought to be.

As the door of No. 108 Haybale Lane closed behind him, the Mule found himself reconsidering this position.

It was the light that first unsettled him. The windows of the claustrophobic room were barred and shuttered, and there were no candles burning anywhere. Instead, arranged in the center of the room on a stout little wooden table was a collection of odd glowing glass tubes, sprouting up from a mass of gears and servos and glowing with a bleached white light unlike anything the Mule had ever seen before. Despite its intense whiteness it somehow managed to be quite colorless, and the unsteady stacks of books rising around it cast long black shadows across the room.

In fact, it seemed that there was much more shadow than light, which possibly had something to do with the fact that there seemed to be far more books than room. There were books everywhere, books scattered on the floors, books lining the walls, books towering overhead in great unsteady stacks, books pinned to the walls like great alien moths or dangling from the ceiling. Books of every kind and shape, every color and smell, every texture and age. Familiar books, foreign books, books ripped to shreds and scattered loose-leaved around the entire room, and ancient books padlocked to their shelves and held shut by iron bars bolted straight through their yellowed pages.

It wasn’t a library, or even a storehouse. Libraries and storehouses were built with the expectation that ponies would visit them and use them, but this place offered no such concessions. It had been utterly given over to the books, scrolls, tomes, and scraps of paper filling its every corner, and although it might be willing to tolerate living things, the Mule felt that it clearly didn’t like them.

“I know I specified low intelligence as a desirable trait, but I had hoped that any applicants would have at least seen a book before. The sight appears to be a completely novel one to you.” The pegasus who had met him at the door popped out from beneath a suspended bookcase, hung by chains from the ceiling, and glared up at the mule. “Are you quite done gawking?”

He rolled the question over in his mind, considering it carefully from all angles, and came to a conclusion. “I ‘spose so. You got quite a fine lot 'o books here, if'n you don't mind me saying so.”

The mare frowned. “Your approval is appreciated. Follow me.”

She disappeared back under the bookcase like a snake down a burrow. The Mule hesitated a moment, and then knelt and squirmed in after her to emerge in a very slightly less bookish area. The odd pegasus glanced up at him behind the room's single surreal lamp, her hooves folded in front of her as she eyed him through a pair of gleaming half-moon spectacles. Sitting at her right hoof was the little unicorn filly the mule had seen earlier, a stern, official look on her tiny face.

The pegasus said nothing until the mule had risen to his hooves and brushed the dust out of his fur. Then, addressing a patch of air about a yard in front of her face, she said, “Acolyte Sweetie Belle! Present the applicant with writing materials!”

“Yes, Miss Sassaflash,” said Acolyte Sweetie Belle, her voice soaring up a few dozen registers halfway through the “Yes” and then cracking open like a frozen soap bubble at “-flash.” She bustled forward, planted herself directly in front of the mule, and squeaked, “Quill!”

A tatty quill that looked like it had been chewed at one time landed in front of him.

“Ink!”

An inkwell slid off the filly’s back and rattled to the floor, nearly spilling its contents in the process.

“Paper!”

A sheaf of paper—more, the mule hoped, than he would actually need—flopped down at his feet. Acolyte Sweetie Belle opened her mouth as if to announce a fourth item, paused, shut it again, and scuttled back to Sassaflash‘s side. The teal pegasus nodded. “Well done.”

Sweetie Belle beamed.

Turning an austere eye on the mule, Sassaflash continued, “As the first applicant—“

“I think he’s the only applicant, Miss Sassaflash,” interrupted Sweetie Belle.

The mare blinked several times and continued, her voice tinged with just the tiniest hint of ice. “Yes, thank you, Sweetie Belle. As the only applicant thus far, you have shown commendable promptitude and initiative. However!” She barked the word, and several particularly unstable stacks of books bumped and thudded to the floor as Sweetie Belle started back against them. “That will not be enough. In my employ, you will be expected to jump when I say jump, freeze when I say freeze, and run when I say run—or when being pursued by unholy relics of the distant past brought to horrific life, either/or, let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss?”

Sassaflash raised an eyebrow. “Granted. Furthermore, your duties—should you be blessed with the honor of being my underling—will involve exposure to extreme cold and carrying heavy burdens for long periods of time under harsh conditions. A certain minimum level of durability will be expected. Do you consider yourself suited for this? Will you die of exposure, your numbed legs collapsing beneath your frigid body as wendigos howl overhead, or are you only likely to die in such a manner?”

The mule hesitated. “I ain’t sure I understand exactly what sort o’ job I’m bein’ called to do.”

A cold smile. “Exactly the sort of job? You aren’t expected to. Answer the question.”

“Well, I did spend a couple o’ years up North in griffon country, helpin’ them move stones up one o’ their mountains for a castle they was workin’ on. Pretty cold up there, and the work weren’t easy, neither.”

“Hm.” The pegasus peered over her spectacles at him. At length she smiled. “Well, perhaps you’ll do. Perhaps. The main questionnaire is yet to come, of course, and that will be the true deciding factor, but you aren’t completely unsuited, at least. Just one more thing.” She turned to the young unicorn at her shoulder and bent down to whisper into her ear. The filly’s eyes widened and she vanished off into the stacks of books, shoving and pushing her way through in a papery rustling commotion.

Several long moments passed. Sassaflash stared up at the ceiling, apparently fascinated by the joists. At length there came a few muffled clanks and thuds somewhere off in the forest of books, and Sweetie Belle burrowed her way out of a pile of thin librettos.

“All clear, Miss Sassaflash.”

“Excellent.” The mare turned her attention to the mule, coughed, and in a voice like a snake with bronchitis hissed, “Y'sll'ha c'chtenff.”

“Bless you,” said the mule, politely.

“Aklo nafl'ai? Mnahn'uh'e wgah'nshugg, mnahn'f'nyth, mnahn'grah'n. Lloighrii ya k'yarnakeeog. Kadishtu?”

The mule tilted his head, looking at the mare with a worried expression. “You feeling alright, Miss?”

“Naflkadishtu—mg'naflmnanh'.” she finished, and then continued in Common Equine, “Yes, fine. Your opinion, Sweetie Belle?”

The filly, who had been staring intently at the Mule the while, looked up at Sassaflash. “Well, he kinda twitched when you said Mannanannagranna—you know—but I think that was just because you accidentally spat on him a little. I don’t think he understood it. And, um, did you mean any of that?"

"Of course not." The mare smiled. “But I agree. Well then, mule,” she added, “I think it not impossible that you might be worthy to serve the Dark Lord Sassaflash. Kindly fill out the form provided for you, give it to my acolyte when you’re done—“ She motioned to Sweetie Belle, who raised a hoof and waved energetically, “—and I’ll get back to you shortly. Thank you for your time, Mr.—ah—?”

“I’m the Mule,” said the Mule.

Sassaflash blinked. “Your name, not your species.”

The bony creature smiled tolerantly. “You don’t understand, Miss. That is my name. Or if’n you want to be formal, I’m the Ponyville Mule. Begging your pardon, but do you got something in your eye? Only you done gone all squinty."

"Um. Thank you for your concern, but no. 'The Ponyville Mule?'"

“Yes indeed.” The Mule inclined his head. “Ain't but one mule here in Ponyville, and I'm him. It's the same for other cities, or leastwise the small ones. Ponyfolk don't fall in love with donkeys much, you know, or t’other way round, so mostly there ain’t enough o’ us for it to make much sense to bother with names.”

“I see,” said the teal pegasus, massaging her yellow-maned forehead. “And how many of you are there, exactly…?”

“Eightee—no, sorry, I’m a liar. Seventeen. The Dodge Junction Mule died this last summer. We all misses her; she was such a fine ‘ol molly. But then, we've all got to go sometime, don't we?"

“No. I mean yes. I mean...” The Dark Lord shook her head, and snapped, “Be that as it may, ‘Mule’ is hardly an acceptable form of address. Supposing that, improbable as it may be, you prove worthy to be my minion, I refuse to refer to you by your species. It’s—it’s gauche.”

“Okay.” The Mule shrugged. “Howsabout Mister Mule?”

Sweetie Belle tried to suppress a giggle and failed spectacularly. Sassaflash started to respond, stopped, and then shrugged hopelessly. “Very well. ‘Mister Mule’ it is. At any rate, complete that questionnaire, Mister, ah, Mule, sign the attached waivers, and return the completed forms to my acolyte. We should have finished looking through the other applications in three to five days, by which time—“

“But Miss Sassaflash, nopony else applied for the—“

“Acolytes should be seen and not heard, Sweetie Belle. As I was saying, the applications should be processed in three to five days, by which time you will be hearing back from us. Good day, Mister Mule.”

He nodded. “Good day, Miss Sassaflash.”

“Yes. Well.” The pegasus gestured for her acolyte to come close, hissed “Don’t let him touch anything,” and disappeared off into the jungle of books. A moment later the Mule heard the clump of hoofsteps ascending overhead, which he supposed was the Dark Lord retreating to some more hospitable and less bookish region of the house. With a vague smile, he turned his attention to the first page of the questionnaire, filled in “The Ponyville Mule” and “I can’t rightly say” for the “Name” and “Birthdate” fields, decided that the other bits about previous employers and suchlike were dull and could be filled in later, and moved on to the first question: “1. How do you feel about deicide?”

The Mule nibbled pensively on the quill. Yup. Definitely a loon. He was glad he hadn’t decided to wait it out ‘til Miss Carrot Top’s crop was ready for the harvest; this was going to be much more interesting. He dipped the nib of his quill into the inkwell, and began writing.

Author's Note

I think we can all agree that this has been quite long enough in coming. Here it be, though; my second story, with the epilogue to Mendacity to arrive in ~2 weeks' time and the next chapter of this tale coming by the next full moon. This particular story will draw rather heavily from the Cthulhu Mythos for the background elements of the story, and will also feature a character with a Southern-esque accent in a subservient position to another character. Oh, and the former is lower-class, and is exposed to a sort of mild fantastic racism. Did I mention that this draws from the Cthulhu Mythos? Yes? Ah. Did I also mention that Lovecraft was horrifically racist, and that bled over into more than a few of his stories?

...So, yeah. In short, the bedrock on which this story is set has about fifteen different racially sensitive points woven into it, and I confidently expect that, my best intentions and efforts notwithstanding, I'll end up hurting someone's feelings with this within a picosecond or so. Just bear in mind that despite the fact that I've basically picked up a gun with all six chambers loaded and am playing Russian Roulette with it, my intentions are good, and hamhanded as the results may end up being I do mean well. Please, if things do fall apart somewhere along the way, let me know.

Chapter 2

Mount Hatheg-Klop stood tall and alone above the drifting sands of the surrounding desert. Strange shapes danced and leaped in the great bowl carved into its peak, their flinty hooves striking sparks from the stones and their stalked eyes shining with reflected firelight. Lords and rulers of this world, they had danced here for uncounted years, and nothing, nothing, would ever dethrone them from their rightful place, or cast them down. They knew this, and so they danced.

One of the lesser beings, a knob-tailed dog-thing sitting by the fire and clapping to the beat of the drums and whining flutes, paused and raised an ear. He thought for a moment that he had heard something far off in the distance, something like the beating of huge leathery—no, feathery—wings…

Half an hour later the bonfire had been put out, the mists had cleared, the dancing deities had scurried away from their lek in a panic, and a deep blue alicorn sat alone in the mountaintop basin, preening her long feathers and muttering to herself. She raised her horned head and gazed peevishly off at the Sun, resting lazy and red on the horizon.

“Sister, couldst not thou have found the time to cleanse the vermin from the Dreamlands whilst I was gone? For they have made most merry sport of—“

She paused. The Sun continued to be generally Sun-like, making no obvious response, but its tranquil glow must have conveyed some meaning to the reclining goddess, for after a moment’s attentive silence she rolled her eyes and continued, “Very well, then. ‘Couldn’t you.’ But I have been at these jackanapes for nigh on a fortnight, from Ooth-Nagai to Lomare, and still they vex me!“

More uneventfulness from the Sun.

“Faith, is that word also forsook? But I was fond of ‘jackanapes!’” She gave an extremely undignified snort and sat back on her haunches. “’Twas good enow a thousand years ago. How comes it that it be not good enow today?”

The Sun did absolutely nothing.

“Aye, aye,” responded the alicorn. “But I wonder that they have any words at all, these moderns of thine.” She spread her wings. “Belike they dream in ‘probablys’ and ‘couldn’ts,’ as well. I shall return anon, ‘Tia. Sleep well.”

As she soared away from the mountaintop, the cold high wind pressing against her primaries and swirling through her long, star-studded mane, the alicorn smiled in spite of herself. She had come back to this world as a conqueror, ready to blast her sister’s Sun out of the sky forever and reign alone and unopposed. But here she was, little Princess Luna, bickering like a foal with her sister just like in the old days. Or rather, not quite like the old days. The bitterness was gone.

Not, she reminded herself, that she would have minded if the Dreamlands had been better tended in her absence. Celestia had done what she could, but what with managing both Sun and Moon her sister had had little time to spare. Over the years many odd and disturbing things had crept into this realm and made it their home, and Luna feared that some of them had not come out of the nightmares of ponies.

She feared even more that some of them had.

It was three-forty AM. This and the fact that he did not want it to be three-forty AM were the only two things that the Mule was really aware of, and if he had been able to have his way he would soon have been unaware even of them. The noises, bright lights, and pokings that had woken him up in the first place, however, did not abate, and several more realizations gradually forced themselves upon his resentful consciousness. They were all unwelcome.

Without much real hope that it would accomplish anything, the Mule muttered, “Schleepin’ now. Cm’back three t’ five business days. Thankee.”

Something poked him hard in the ribs. “That was an estimate of maximum delay, Mister Mule, not an exclusive range. I command you to wake up!”

He dragged his eyelids open. The pony he had met yesterday afternoon—he forgot her name, Sassy something. Sassafras? Sassaflash, that was it—was standing by his bed and glowering down at him, an impatient frown on her face. Seeing that he was awake, she stamped her hoof and snapped, “Get up! Matters have proceeded slightly faster than anticipated, and I require your services. Now. This very minute, as a matter of fact. Pack your things and follow me.”

The Mule considered this for a moment, glanced blearily around his cramped little tenement room and noted that nothing was on fire, and closed his eyes again. It could wait.

More impatient poking. “I said get up! I will not be ignored!”

Winching his eyes back open, the Mule responded, “I ain’t ignoring you, Miss. I paid real close attention. I just ain’t going to do what you said, that’s all. T’ain’t the time for decent folk to be up and about.”

Sassaflash sniffed. “I am the Dark Lord Sassaflash, not ‘decent folk.’ Sun forbid I be mistaken for one of the rabble.” Trotting over to the room’s small closet and yanking it open, she continued, “And if you are to be my minion, then the same goes for you. I won’t hear of any lackey of mine being mistaken for ‘decent folk.’ It would be a humiliation. Are you aware that you have a shameful lack of wilderness survival gear?”

“Them’s my things,” observed the Mule. “Some folks wouldn’t take kindly to you goin’ through ‘em. Not me, I’m broad-minded, but some folk wouldn’t take kindly to it.”

“No doubt.” The mare slammed the door of the room’s small closet and trotted over to a battered old traveling chest resting in a corner. Pointing a hoof at it she demanded, “What is in here?”

“Them’s also my things.” With great reluctance, the Mule hoisted himself out of bed, his hooves hitting the bare wooden floor with a string of hollow thuds. “How’d you get in, anyhow?”

“Through the doors, of course, regardless of whether that meant turning a latch or cutting through them. A lock is a test of one’s resolve, nothing more.” Sassaflash heaved the sigh of a good pony unjustly treated. “I suppose I can outfit you from my own supplies. So be it. Come!”

Tilting his head, the drowsy creature responded, “I ain’t real inclined to come. What’s got you so het up, anyhow?”

“As my minion, it’s hardly any of your concern.”

“Who said I was your minion?”

The pegasus stared at him for a moment or two, and then, in a voice that was evidently supposed to sound calm and self-assured but that held a distinct note of uncertainty, said, “You applied for the position, didn’t you? And I’ve decided to hire you. Doesn’t that mean you’re my minion?”

“Maybe it do, maybe it don’t.” The Mule yawned. “Maybe I thunk things over and changed my mind. You don’t know.”

“Oh.” Sassaflash‘s left ear twitched as if she were trying to bat away an invisible fly. She opened her mouth, shut it again, and then said, “Right then. Um. Mister Mule, I have reviewed your application, and deman—would like for you to begin work as soon as possible. Payment will be food and board, and—conquest—subcontinents—you know. We’ve gone over that. Do you accept?”

After looking at her in silence for a good, long while, the shabby beast said, “You know, by rights I ought to say no. You ain’t been real mannerly.” He shrugged. “But you did ask, and so far as I can tell asking ain’t no easy thing for you to do. Anyhow, my life’s been a mite dull lately, and if this ain’t excitement then I don’t know what is.” After a few moments of consideration, he chuckled, spat on his hoof, and held it out. “’Ain’t no fool like a mule,’ as the ponies do say. Tarnation, I’ll do it. Miss Sassaflash, you got yourself a minion. Put ‘er there!”

She stared at the proffered hoof for a moment, her wings clamped tightly at her sides and her ears flattened back in mild horror, and then looked up. “I don’t suppose there is an alternative rustic bonding ritual we might engage in? I dislike being touched.”

“I can’t believe you wiped it on your fur!”

“Where else was I supposed to wipe it? They wasn’t no kerchiefs about, and since you was so dead set agin’ the hoofbump, I had to clean my hoof on something. T’ain’t no big deal.”

“I can see that we are going to have to set some ground rules. I will expect you, in future, to be less organic. Sweat, mucus, shed fur, and so on are to be kept to a minimum. Is this understood, Mister Mule?”

“Yes, Miss Sassaflash.“

Two dark figures stole silently through the streets of Ponyville, for some extremely liberal value of “silently.” The scrawnier and more angular of the shadows was burdened with a tangled mass of cloth and rope tied to his back, but he was making a good pace nonetheless. The second figure, indistinct under a flowing black cloak, seemed to be somewhat on edge. She moved in fits and starts, peering about suspiciously and avoiding the glow of the Ponyville street lamps whenever possible. As the pair reached the mouth of a darkened side street, the skittish figure halted abruptly, raising a warning hoof. Pulling back the hood of her cloak, she glanced quickly around and sniffed at the air. The coast was apparently clear, for after scowling up at the full Moon she darted into the shadows of the little side lane and motioned for her companion to follow. There was a rattle and a clink as he ambled in, and then the streets of Ponyville were given over once again to silence.

The pause in activity was only an intermission, not a finale. Some minutes later a nervous humming sound began to emerge from one of the old, dingy houses occupying Haybale Lane, and the crevices of its window shutters glinted with a sickly light, pale as chalk. Within, Sassaflash sat at a battered little table heaped with glass tubes, books, papers, random detritus, and seven empty tea-stained mugs, scrawling something on a piece of paper with a quill held clumsily in her mouth. Meanwhile the Mule, who had left his bundle by the door and was now hoping to find some good traveling cookbooks, ambled about the room looking through the shelves. He wasn’t exactly sure whether he was having any success or not; so many of the titles were in foreign languages and scripts, or had had the text on their spines rubbed to illegibility by centuries of use, that half of them could have been chockablock with recipes and he’d have been none the wiser. Running a hoof along a row of books in a small, ornately carved bookshelf, the Mule mouthed out some of the names—strange names, names that didn’t seem to fit quite right in his mouth and left a bad taste after they were gone. Lóhonci-kódex, The Princess in Yellow, Cthäat Aquadingen, Liber Rotae Dentalis, Malleus Unicornium, The Ponypei Scriptures...

“Well, don’t that just beat all,” he mused aloud. “What is a ‘Ponypei,’ anyhow?”

“Small island in the southwest ocean,” muttered Sassaflash, her back to the inquirer. “Very wet, too many bugs.” She spat the quill on to the table and turned. “Why do you—”

A pause.

In a monotone as flat and cold as a pool of quicksilver, the pegasus said, “Step away from those books.”

The Mule stepped away from the books.

“Did you touch any of them?”

“No, Miss, I just—“

“We need to establish another ground rule.” She pushed past her minion to the shelves, and after a close examination of their contents turned to face the Mule, placing her body between him and the bookshelf. “That rule is ‘Do not touch, smell, read, or otherwise observe any of the Dark Lord Sassaflash‘s shelved books.’ Is that understood?”

The Mule’s eyes widened. “I’m mighty sorry, Miss Sassaflash. I didn’t know they was delicate, them being books and all.”

“Delicate?” The teal pegasus raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. Most of those books could survive a trip through a blast furnace and come out only mildly singed. I don’t avoid candles and open flames—“ she gestured through a gap in the stacks at the strange glowing apparatus atop the central table “—for their benefit. Now come. There’s much to do before the morning, and it is high time we tested your minionly mettle. Do you know what worrywort looks like?”

“I reckon. I seen it growin’ fornenst the Everfree.” Following the Dark Lord as she threaded her way through a papery arroyo towards an open doorway in the back of the room, he continued, “But about them books, Miss Sassaflash. If they’s so tough, why was you worried about ‘em?”

“It wasn’t their safety that concerned me.” She paused in the entrance to what the Mule now saw was a dingy, neglected kitchen, and turned to face her minion. “Mister Mule, you will be required to perform a great many tasks in my employ, and will most probably be required to face—or rather, turn tail and flee—a great many dangers. Many of these will be of a magical nature, and in an ideal world, you would already be well-versed in the lore, nature, and use of magic.”

Gesturing for him to follow, she trotted into the kitchen. “But we do not live in an ideal world. You are ignorant, and I do not have the time to teach you magic, as I have been trying to teach my acolyte. Consequently, when faced with strange beasts, structures built in impossible shapes, moldering books blazoned with strange symbols, and the like, you are not to investigate them, or stand your ground and face them down. The Equestria we will be exploring is a hidden and dangerous one that most ponies rarely encounter, and that even fewer survive. Fear, Mister Mule, will be your best defense.”

An uncomfortably long pause followed, during which Sassaflash stared at the Mule, waiting for him to respond, and the Mule stared at Sassaflash, wondering exactly how many two-bit adventure novellas it had taken before she started talking that way. The aspiring Dark Lord broke the silence first, abruptly stating “Tea!” in a firm, clear voice.

“Beg pardon, Miss Sassaflash?”

“Tea,” she repeated. “You are to brew some. I take three leaves of worrywort as flavoring in my tea, which you will find in the pantry—just there, to the left of the acid burn. No, Mister Mule, that is not an acid burn. That is a scorch mark. I find your unfamiliarity with the aftermath of violent chemical reactions to be very worrying”

“Beg pardon, Miss Sassaflash. Found it, Miss Sassaflash.”

“Acceptable.” The pegasus gave a little satisfied flutter of her wings, and half-turned towards the door to the Lair of Books. “I shall leave you to it, then, unless there are any problems.”

“Well, I—”

“Yes, you may help yourself to the contents of the pantry.” Her ears twitched in irritation. “‘Food and board’ were the terms, after all. I should have thought that was clear enough.”

“That ain’t what I was a-going to ask you, actually,” said the Mule. “I was wonderin’ about them magic lessons you said you was giving the filly. Ain’t you, um, a mite lackin’ up-a-top?” He tapped his hornless forehead.

“I am not a unicorn, true. I cannot produce magic.” The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed. “But you are neither a stove, a fire, a tea sachet, nor a kettle, and yet you are able to make tea—or so you claimed on the questionnaire, although I have seen little evidence of tea-making ability thus far.”

“That ain’t the same thing, though.”

“Mister Mule, it is exactly the same thing. A unicorn is a mere—a mere spigot, out of which magic flows. It may be turned on or off. Its flow may be decreased or increased. If one is particularly clever, and places one’s hoof over the opening just so, one may even force it to flow as one wishes—and perhaps create a directed jet, or a spray of droplets. But ultimately it is still only good for one thing.”

“Most unicorns never even realize their limitations. They hone their abilities, and some among them become truly great.” She sneered. “But a great spigot is still just a spigot. We pegasi and Earth ponies, lacking magic of our own, must take a more difficult but ultimately more rewarding path.” With a rustling flourish the mare spread her wings wide for emphasis. “The only good mages are unicorns—but the only great mages are Earth ponies and pegasi.”

She stared impressively at him, and then snapped her wings shut and executed a swift about-face. Looking back over her shoulder, she snapped, “Tea. Three leaves. Exactly three,” and trotted back into the Book Room, leaving the Mule amongst the heaps of dirty dishes and rusted fixtures littering the little kitchen.

The following hour or two were among the oddest of the Mule’s life. Things began quietly enough; after finishing the herbal tea prepared by the Mule (“Always use worrywort when preparing my tea, Mister Mule, and always use three leaves. And only use it for my tea. It is my tea, not yours. You can’t have any. My tea”), Sassaflash trotted back to her overburdened wooden table and scribbled out a few lines of script, which she rolled up into a little scroll. Turning to the Mule, she said, “There is an amateur veterinarian of sorts who lives on the borders of the Everfree forest. Take the side road on Stirrup Street opposite the haberdashery, and then just keep on going away from town until you reach her hut. I wish you to deliver this there.”

He leaned forward and gingerly took the scroll in his mouth. “Ysh Mss. Thnn I gvv it too thish vetrinrnn?”

“What? No.” The teal pegasus frowned. “Of course not, she’s an idiot. Goes around singing to wild animals. She probably writes poetry. No, I want you to deliver this to a small rabbit living with her; she calls him ‘Angel Bunny,’ for some deranged reason. Ask for him at the door, and then give him this and tell him it came from me. You will attempt no further communication with either the milksop or the rabbit, and will return here immediately. Is this understood, Mister Mule?

He dropped the scroll to the floor and said, “Understood, Miss Sassaflash, but…”

The mare raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Gesturing towards a clicking, whirring thing on the wall that he was reasonably sure was either a clock or a device for puréeing cabbage, the Mule asked, “Ain’t it a mite late—or early, as might be said—to go a-knocking on ponies’ doors?”

“Nonsense. Just knock hard enough, and you’ll eventually get a response. Use fire if absolutely necessary. This delay is beginning to irk me, Mister Mule, so—” She stopped, and then raised her hoof. “Wait, one more thing. Avoid the moonlight as much as possible, and travel along shaded paths so that the Moon can’t—so that you can’t see the Moon. Now go! The Dark Lord Sassaflash commands it!”

The delivery of the rabbit’s message (written in a series of strange, spiky scratches that spread out from the center of the paper like cracks in a sheet of ice) was actually one of the least bizarre errands given to the Mule that night. It made sense, if one mentally squinted at it and tilted one’s head the right way: there was a note to be delivered to a house, and it needed to be given to a pon—to an animal who lived inside that house. Perfectly everyday. Nothing unusual about it.

The second errand, though, in which she bade him take a bulky metal object, roughly spherical and carved with peculiar glyphs, sneak on to the Ponyville train platform, and wedge it into a hidden gap on the outside of a very specific train car, was somewhat less prosaic. The third was odder still and resulted in a hastily-written letter and one of Haybale Lane’s flagstones being scorched out of existence in a burst of green flame. After completing the fourth task, the Mule decided that it would be best if he just tried to forget that it had happened at all. He was only partially successful in this, as it would be at least three months before he was able to look at anything even remotely slug-shaped without wincing.

Sassaflash made no response when the dazed Mule stumbled back into her lair after this last errand, trailing little puddles of slug slime and helplessly muttering something about eyestalks. She was deeply involved in an effort to pack many very large things into one very small saddlebag and seemed disinclined towards conversation. As the door creaked shut behind him, however, he caught the sound of paper rustling off in one of the nooks of the book-infested room, and after peering around for the source spotted the little unicorn filly he had met the day before, sitting in a heap of scrolls and manuscripts and squinting in the bleached, chalky light of the room’s bizarre lamp.

“Well, I never,” murmured the homely creature, and clomped over to the sleepy unicorn, his odd face wrinkled in concern. “Miss Sweetie Belle, you ain’t been here all night, have you?”

With an enormous yawn, the filly shifted a treatise on third century griffon alchemists aside and rose to her hooves. “No, I—wait, why are you here?”

“I been starting to wonder the same thing,” muttered the Mule, as he raised a hoof and brushed off an errant slug still clinging to one of his long ears. In a normal tone, he continued, “I got hired, is why. But shouldn’t you ought to be in bed? T’ain’t no time for foals to be up.” Another thought occurred to him. “Hold on a minute. Miss Sassaflash here ain’t your kin, is she?” He turned and raised his voice. “Miss Sassaflash? What’s this filly doing here at this time o’ night?”

“Being stubborn!” The pegasus poked her head up from behind a heavy oak bookcase, and snapped, “You’re not coming, and that’s final!”

“But I don’t want to stay behind,” whined the filly. “It’s no fair. I could be really helpful! Angel could take care of things here, and if he needed help Crowded Parchment could—“

“We have discussed this before, Sweetie Belle. Angel is too small to attend to everything, and Parchment is a—“ She hesitated, glanced at the Mule, and finished, “—a strange pony, and can hardly be expected to just waltz into Ponyville.”

“But—“

“Silence! The Dark Lord Sassaflash is packing!” The mare ducked back behind the bookcase and began to make industrious rustling noises. Sweetie Belle opened her mouth as if to make a retort, let it hang open for maybe five seconds, and then plunked herself down on her hindquarters with her forehooves crossed in irritation.

After glancing back and forth at the two of them in some confusion, the Mule shrugged. It was clear that there was a fair bit going on here that he didn’t understand, but he thought he understood enough. Trudging over to Sweetie Belle, he said, “Alright, missy, on your hooves. Best you got back home afore your folks start fussing.”

For a moment she looked like she was going to object, but then she sighed and lowered her head. “Yeah, I guess.”

“That’s right.” The scruffy creature nodded. “And you’d best have somepony go back with you; it’s awful dark out.” Looking up, he called, “Miss Sassaflash? D’you think you might could see this filly back to—”

“Packing!”

“—Or I could do it, I reckon,” continued the Mule, placidly.

The Dark Lord waved a dismissive hoof. “Yes, yes, whatever.” After a moment’s thought, she added, “And make sure her parents know, I don’t want her sneaking out here again. I’ve got too much to deal with as it is.”

“Alrighty.” Turning to Sweetie Belle, the Mule said, “Come on, then, let’s get you back to your kin. A filly your age shouldn’t ought to be out alone with strange ponies.”

“Miss Sassaflash isn’t a strange pony. I mean, she’s—um.”

The unicorn trailed off into silence. After waiting a moment or two for her to continue, his face a respectful blank, the Mule turned to look at the Dark Lord Sassaflash, and Sweetie Belle reluctantly followed his gaze. The teal pegasus was stalking back and forth in the cramped confines of a little arroyo of books, surrounded by scattered vials, books, hay bricks, herbs, canteens, and woolen cloaks, and was hissing nasty-sounding words in a weird, guttural language at one of the saddlebags. The saddlebag, showing commendable self-restraint, did not appear to be making any response.

The Dark Lord’s minion turned and ambled over towards the front door. “You know best, I ‘spose.”

“Okay,” conceded Sweetie Belle, following him, “but she’s not strange like you mean. I’ve been her acolyte since winter, and—No, Miss Sassaflash, I won’t forget to lock the door behind me—and my mom and dad know I come over here in the afternoon for lessons.”

“That don’t signify,” declared the Mule, holding out a hoof to the filly to help her down the stairs. She ignored it and hopped down to the street, upon which he shrugged and withdrew the extended hoof. “Hit ain’t the afternoon right now, and I’ll bet that your ma and pa don’t know you is up, does they now?”

Sweetie Belle looked at the cobblestones and said something indistinct, and the Mule nodded. “I figured as much.”

Raising her head, the little pony said, “But I don’t do it often, I promise! I just really, really don’t want to get left behind.”

“Why might that be? This here’s a mighty nice town, full o’ mighty nice ponies. Ain’t you got friends to play with?”

“No, I’ve got two best friends.” The unicorn sighed. “But they’re not around right now. One of them’s got to help out on her family’s farm while her sister goes to the Grand Galloping Gala, and the other’s visiting her aunt in Cloudsdale. I thought if I did a really good job helping Miss Sassaflash, I might get my cutie mark in magic or potion-brewing or necromancy, and then I could warp the very plywood of space and time and summon dark demons, holding them in thrall to my terrible will!” Sweetie Belle reared up on her hind legs, waving her forehooves theatrically, before dropping down to all fours again with a cheerful smile. “And then I’d make the demons give Scootaloo and Apple Bloom—they’re my friends—their cutie marks.”

“What was that about necromancy?”

“But I can’t do any of that if I get stuck here. It’s not fair! I’m a really, really good acolyte, but Miss Sassaflash never lets me do anything.” She struck her forehoof against the cobblestones for emphasis. “I’ve learned a lot, and I can do more than just getting stuff and carrying messages. When she wrote this morning that she was leaving tomorrow—or today, I guess—I thought maybe if I could just get her to listen she’d let me come with.” Her ears drooped. “You saw how that turned out.”

“That I did. Which way, missy, right or left?”

“Left. My house is down at the lake, near—“ Coming to an abrupt halt under the stone arch shadowing the path out from Haybale Lane, the unicorn squeaked, “Wait! Stop!”

Bony limbs tumbled around one another as the Mule lumbered to a halt, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

In answer, Sweetie Belle pointed out to the empty square, draped in blue-black shadows and silvered with moonlight. “The Moon’s up! Miss Sassaflash said that I shouldn’t walk where I can see it. She said it’d get into my dreams and see what I’m thinking.”

“Did she now.” The Mule turned and ambled out in to the pale, brittle light, ignoring his companion’s shocked squeak. Turning, he said, “They ain’t no call to be afeared o’ the Moon. The Mare in the Moon’s gone, and I heard tell Princess Celestia’s been studyin’ her sister to be good, these past few month. She ain’t a-going be bringing nightmares no more.”

“But Miss Sassaflash said—“

“I reckon she’s been spending too much time in amongst her books.” And filling your head with all manner o’ boogiemares and haints. I’m gon’ have to talk to her about that. She can be as tetched as she wants, but that don’t mean she can go ‘round scaring foals. With a reassuring smile, he continued aloud, “See? Ain’t nothing bad happening to me. Miss Sassaflash, she’s probably been reading so many old pony tales that she’s gone and convinced herself that they’s true.” Chuckling at the quaint notion, he turned and started to amble off, then stopped when he realized that the little unicorn wasn’t following him. Looking back, he called, “Come on, missy, ain’t nothin’ gon’ hurt you.”

The young unicorn sat hunched in the shadows, looking down at the cobblestones. After a moment she raised her head and said, in a quiet but surprisingly strong voice, “They are true. I know they are.”

“Now, just ‘cause Miss Sassaflash says it’s so don’t mean it is. I don’t mean no disrespect to her, but—“

“They are true! I’ve—” Sweetie Belle hesitated for a moment, and then stomped her forehooves on the cobblestones, squeaking in exasperation. “Oo! You need to find out anyway. I’ve seen them! Some of the things. That she talks about, I mean.”

One of the Mule’s ears flopped over sideways of its own accord. He didn’t seem to notice. “And what kinds o’ things might these be?”

“Just—just things. Miss Sassaflash says it isn’t a good idea to say their names, mostly.”

Nudging his ear back into place, the Mule said, “And them things comes in dreams, is that it?”

“Well, some of them. Miss Sassaflash says there’s a place called the Dreamlands, and some ponies can go there when they sleep if they know how. It’s not—I’ve never been there myself, but Miss Sassaflash says she can almost do it, sometimes. Some things from there sometimes get here, but I don’t know how. I met one with her once near the Everfree forest. She said it was called a “zoog.” It was like a little rat thing covered in fur, only the fur was—I don’t know, slippery. It was dry, but it stuck to the zoog’s body like it was wet.” She hesitated, and then finished in an uncertain, dwindling undertone, “I didn’t like its eyes…”

The Mule stared at the little filly with one eyebrow raised and a pensive expression on his oddly shaped face. Then he nodded. “Well, now. I ain’t never heard tell o’ nothin’ like that in the Everfree forest, but then they’s a lot o’ things I ain’t never heard tell of.”

Glancing up at the cold blue stars overhead, he gave a strange sort of chuckle that somehow had very little humor in it, and walked slowly back into the shadows of the overhanging buildings. “And one o’ them things is a pony that knows ‘bout the Dreamlands, and knows that they’s such things as zoogs. They ain’t much for Dreaming in general, the ponyfolk. They lives their lives too fast, and sleeps too shallow. Mostly it’s just mules that knows the ways, and donkeys that finds ‘em by accident.” With a shrug, he continued, “Ain’t no small thing that Miss Sassaflash knows o’ such things. Tell you what; I’ll keep outen the moonlight, and what say on the way back to your folks’ house you tell me more about these stories o’ hern?”

Author's Note

Yikes. High time this got posted, really. Sadly, I have no tales of derring-do today; it's mostly talking and vague Lovecraftian hints. Interesting ones though, I hope, and the next chapter (whenever it arrives) should be a bit more exciting, so hopefully that'll make up for it. Oh, and I have managed to pin down the Mule's accent to something definite; I'm aiming for an Appalachian dialect, mostly because I love the area and the inventiveness of the dialect itself. If any of y'all actually hail from Appalachia, I am so, so sorry for my mangling of the local accent. Oh, and there are also still sort of all the potential racial pitfalls I mentioned after chapter one. So that's fun too.

With that out of the way, I do have some very good news with regard to future chapters. The extremely talented Desert Sage, who goes by Raster in these parts, has offered to create occasional illustrations for future chapters of this story--and based on the lovely illustration he whipped together for Mendacity, I personally can't wait to see what he does with some of the later scenes.

Chapter 3

Ancient cities and false treasures.

She didn’t look like a madmare. Not at first glance. The neat mane, the plain flowing tail, and the well-kept coat—her appearance might be simple, but it was clear that she took decent care of herself. The Mule, who had been making up for lost sleep, half-opened one bleary eye and considered the Dark Lord Sassaflash, surrounded by satchels and bags and curled up at the back of one of the train’s benches like a hermit crab in its shell. She was hunched over a torn, tattered old book bound in some strange material that the Mule did not recognize. It was reminiscent of beaten willow bark, but thicker, and there was a vague familiarity about its texture that left him uneasy. He found himself hoping that he wouldn’t realize what it was.

Eon-old writings and buried towers.

The rows of neat, glass-backed benches lining the train car flickered into darkness as the Friendship Express plunged into one of the many tunnels lining the long, winding railway up the Canterhorn. Beneath the rattle of wheels and the rush of battered air, the old creature caught the papery flap of a page being turned. Daylight began to seep back into the train car as it neared the other end of the tunnel, and he saw the faint silhouette of the pegasus mare still poring through her book despite the near-total darkness. She looked up, noticed that he was watching her, scowled, and returned her attention to the book. One of the bags beside her wriggled slightly, and he decided that, for the sake of his own comfort, he should probably direct his attention elsewhere.

Strange beasts from the stars and from deep underground.

Six hours earlier, when the Mule and Sweetie Belle were wading through the chill, pre-dawn mists swirling in the hollows of Ponyville’s empty roads, the little filly had told him strange stories of worlds and beings altogether alien to the sane, sensible land of Equestria. Sassaflash, she said, had uncovered secrets that were hidden or forgotten by all other ponies. Sassaflash spoke with monsters and demons and wise skulking things. Sassaflash wrote in scripts that had crumbled to glowing cinders centuries ago, consumed in pyres stacked high with forbidden books.

Sassaflash knew.

It was a captivating story, and had clearly captivated the young unicorn. Oblivious to the Mule’s concerned gaze she had prattled happily along, telling him the things she had learned and the many, many more things that she would someday understand. To his surprise and consternation, she had even shown him some of the magic that the pegasus had taught her, scraping out a series of twisting sigils in the roadside loam and muttering in a language that didn’t seem to have been designed with the mouths of ponies in mind. The first three tries were failures, but after the fourth Sweetie Belle had raised her hoof—and the symbols had continued to write themselves. Little furrows dipped and swooped through the dust, their edges limned with a tracery of frost as they cycled back through the original sequence of patterns again and again.

“It’s like a ball bouncing up and down. You just have to ‘throw’ it right. It’ll keep on going like that for a while, but eventually it’ll go like this,” the little unicorn had waved her hooves wildly, “and fall apart.”

“Ain’t that something,” the Mule had responded, edging away from the swirling eddies in the dust. “Ain’t that just something. We best be getting on, Missy.”

Sweetie Belle might have noticed the hastiness with which the Mule distanced himself from the weirdly dancing glyphs; at any rate, she made no comment as she hurried along after him, and had remained silent as they left Mane Street by a side path and made their way down a sloping, tree-shadowed byway that led to the lake. Her companion supposed that she had told all she was going to tell.

As they made their way along a winding lakeside path, though, the moonlight off the lake flashing through gaps in the trees, the little filly had abruptly spoken up again. She told the Mule how sometimes Sassaflash would start to say a word and then stop, or slam books shut when she came in to a room too quickly. There were creatures or things, Sweetie Belle thought, that the tense, paranoid mare didn’t want her to know about, although she had managed to pick up a few details—nothing much, just random fragments and hints. They were large, maybe, and at least one of them was somehow associated with the color yellow. Another wore masks, or had different faces—she wasn’t sure which. Several of them were linked in some way to the ocean.

And all of them, whatever they were, were very, very, very old.

Every so often the Mule would mutter a surprised “Well I never” or a “You don’t say” as the little unicorn spoke, but for the most part he had remained silent, interrupting only to ask the occasional clarifying question—and even those were few and far between. He had enough to ponder as it was; he hardly needed more things to think about. So preoccupied was the old beast, in fact, that when they arrived at the door of Sweetie Belle’s home and the little unicorn had flashed a nervous smile and sidled inside, he had merely nodded vaguely and tromped off again—and only remembered that he ought to have told her parents what she had been up to a good twenty minutes after the fact. Too late then, of course.

The Mule felt as though he had ordered a small sheaf of hay as an after-dinner snack, and instead an entire bale had thumped down on the table. Sassaflash knew about the Dreamlands; well, that was strange, and not a thing that any pony normally knew of. It might be that she knew some other things, too; magic for Earth ponies, some old legends and spells, and so on and so forth. He was happy to accept that.

So he had held out his hoof to receive some small dark wriggling secret, something unobtrusive that had squirmed down through the ages only because it was too small to be noticed—and instead Sweetie Belle had simply raised her hoof and pointed to the sky, and the black gulfs between the stars had suddenly become the silhouettes of titan towers and world-beasts, obscene and terrible in their immensity. They were truths that had remained hidden not because they were small, but because they were big—too big for any normal pony to hope to comprehend, too big for the world itself.

So Sweetie Belle had claimed, at least. So Sassaflash had claimed. The old half-blood wasn’t sure how much of it he believed, although he felt that he should probably figure that out fairly soon, given that he had agreed to go along with the crazy mare on whatever tomfool quest she had planned. At least Sweetie Belle wasn’t coming along. A filly didn’t need to be thinking about such things, whether they were true or not.

A shivering jolt disturbed him from his reverie. The train had reached the higher reaches of the Canterhorn, sweeping up and around the sides of the gigantic inselberg on spiraling tracks carved into the living stone. On one side of the train was solid rock, soaring up to the peak far above, while on the other side a precipitous cliff plunged a thousand yards down to the green, marshy lowlands below. Sassaflash was looking out over this dizzying vista now, her forehooves propped up on the sill of one of the train windows, and the other passengers in the train car—fortunately no more than an old dowager griffon with her grandchick and a Fillydelphian pony family, but they were quite enough—were looking at Sassaflash. After a moment the Dark Lord gave a disgusted little snort, apparently unable to see whatever she had been looking for, and glared at the Mule.

“You could have wedged it in place somewhat less firmly, Mr. Mule.”

“Beg pardon?”

She rolled her eyes. “Forget I said anything.” Backing up to the train wall, she glanced over her shoulder, shifted a bit to the right, and then raised her hind legs and slammed her hooves into the wall with terrific force. Before the stunned Mule could say anything, the mare had whipped around and reared up against the window, craning her neck high as she peered outside.

“Beg pardon, miss, but ponies is sta—“

“Silence! The Dark Lord—Ha!” A grin of fierce satisfaction spread across her face. Dropping down to all four hooves, she trotted back to her seat, and began rummaging through her overstuffed saddlebag. The Mule cleared his throat and tried again.

“Miss? Miss, ponies is staring. Could you be less…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish.

Sassaflash yanked her head out of the saddlebag and spat an irregular crystal on to the cushion beside her, its facets glimmering darkly. “Celestia forbid ponies should stare.” She dove back inside the bag. Her voice muffled, she continued, “They might think I was odd, and we can’t have that, now can we?” A notepad and a micrometer caliper landed beside the crystal, and the mare raised her head to stare at their unnerved fellow passengers. “I am the Dark Lord Sassaflash, and I am currently trying to take over the world. I was bucking the side of the train car in order to ready a tool for said quest. And it is all none of your business.” She stared daggers at them. “So kindly do us all a favor and ignore me for the rest of this trip. Further questions are to be addressed to my minion, Mr. Mule, who I’m sure will be both ridiculously polite and entertainingly rustic. Is this clear? Good.” The mare returned her attention to the various items spread out before her and began measuring the crystal’s dimensions with the calipers, scribbling down diagrams and equations in her notepad.

The Mule looked at the griffon, her grandchick, and the family of five ponies sharing the train car with them.

They looked back at the Mule.

Sassaflash scuttled out into the aisle between the seats, dropped the crystal to the floor, and set about measuring it again, apparently unsatisfied with the results she had obtained on her bench.

Nopony said anything.

It took an awkward eternity (or possibly half an hour—but if so, it was a very long half hour), but eventually the train swung around the last cliff-hugging curve, and not long after that passed through the last echoing tunnel. As they blinked at the sudden return of sunlight, the griffon chick and the two youngest ponies simultaneously squealed in delight and plastered their faces to the windows, clambering up to precariously perch atop the seat backs so that they could get a better view. Not more than half a mile ahead, beyond a mounded, grassy jumble of half-cliffs and half-hills, a great host of shining minarets, towers, arches, and spires leapt skyward from the mountain’s face: Canterlot, the City of the Sun, seat of the immortal Princesses and the hub around which all Equestrian civilization spun.

Before long the foals and chick were joined at the windows by the Dark Lord’s minion, his eyebrows raised in appraising interest. He had seen the royal city many times before, of course, during the annual Hearth’s Warming Eve reunion (attended with great conscientiousness by all seventeen mules in Equestria)—but that was in the dead of winter, when the city was a galaxy of warmth and light glowing in a sea of cold grayness. Canterlot in summer was a different creature entirely. The tapering towers had had a spun-sugar delicacy in the festival’s lights, but now they gave a sense of immense, graceful strength, proud and noble as the curve of a workhorse’s back.

Hooves tapped against the train’s wooden floor, and to the Mule’s surprise the Dark Lord Sassaflash joined him at the window, standing at his side and staring up at the celestial city with an unreadable look on her face. Her left ear twitched several times. As they entered the city proper she drew back wordlessly from the window and returned to her bench. The old creature turned to look back at her.

“What’s our business in Canterlot, if’n you don’t mind me asking?”

The pegasus raised her head. “This is not our stop, Mr. Mule. We will be remaining on the train. Canterlot has baked under the Sun for a thousand years, and its mysteries have long since been bleached out of existence.” A note of disdain crept into her voice. “I have no use for this place.”

“You sure about that?” The Mule tilted his head. “They make some real good food down along some o’ them—hup!”

The train had just pulled up to the station, and had stopped with a sharp jolt that sent the Mule’s hooves shifting and clattering across the flooring as he tried to maintain his balance. One of the foals tumbled down from his perch with a cry, as did the chick. The Dark Lord merely swayed, her hoofhold on one of the seat backs keeping her steady. Directing a sharp stare at the Mule, she said, “Food? Mr. Mule, I am bent on a campaign of global domination! Do you honestly suppose that I have time to sample the local cuisine? My path is a strange and dark one, and woe betide any who—Oh, for goodness’ sake.“ She stopped and glowered down at the griffon chick. He had fallen against the edge of one of the seats, striking his forehead against the polished wood, and was now squalling lustily and clutching his head in his claws. His grandmother gave a screech of alarm and rushed over to her grandchild. Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Sassaflash started to resume her curtailed monologue but was cut short by another, louder shriek from the griffon.

A vivid red stain was wicking its way along the chick’s white feathers, seeping from a gash on his forehead.

For a moment Sassaflash made no move, merely watching with an appraising, dispassionate eye as the older griffon began to flail her way through the first stages of hysteria. Then, with a contemptuous snort, she dropped to her hooves and strode over to the stricken chick. Tapping his grandmother on the shoulder, she commanded, “Stand aside.”

The elderly griffon looked up, wide-eyed and panicked, and stared at Sassaflash. The mare frowned. “Stand aside, I said. I am merely strange, not insane—and I know how to treat wounds.” Seeing the hen’s hesitation, the Dark Lord turned and barked, “Mr. Mule! I require you to vouch for my sanity! Also medical gauze, in the blue bag on your left. I will require that as well.”

Her minion considered this while he rummaged through the indicated bag. As he handed the gauze to his employer, he offered, “I reckon you might be sane.”

“Thank you so much for that ringing endorsement.” Sassaflash turned back to the chick’s grandmother. “Let me help him. I assure you, I am very capable.”

After a moment’s further hesitation, the griffon drew haltingly back. Sassaflash knelt beside the sobbing chick and declared, “Infant! The Dark Lord Sassaflash demands silence!"

The chick’s eyes widened, and after a hiccup or two he stopped crying, apparently struck dumb by the novelty of the situation. The Dark Lord nodded. “Acceptable.” She inspected the wound in silence, and then cut off a length of gauze, rolled it into a pad, and pressed it to the chick’s head with her hoof. Reaching out with her other hoof, she hooked the elderly griffon’s claw and pressed it down over the gauze pad. “Hold for a quarter of an hour.” She removed her own hoof. For a moment she gazed at the griffon chick with a strange look in her eyes, and then without another word trotted back to her seat and nestled in amongst her books.

For a moment nopony said anything. Then the fearful grandmother, claw still in place, quavered, “Well?”

“’Well,’ what?” The mare gave the griffon a quizzical look. Then comprehension dawned. “Oh. The chick. He is in satisfactory condition. No damage to the skull. He must be taken to a doctor for a proper examination, but for the present, continue to apply a firm, steady pressure to the wound. If the cloth becomes soaked with blood, apply another piece of gauze over it without lifting the first. Mr. Mule, another piece of gauze, if you please. Thank you.”

A long, awkward pause. The Dark Lord Sassaflash frowned. “I would appreciate it if everypony would stop gawking at me. I have no plans to do anything noteworthy for at least another five hours. The majority of you should be debarking at this time, in any case.”

The others shuffled sheepishly out of the car, the griffon going last and holding her grandchick in a crooked foreclaw. When they were gone, the Dark Lord turned to the Mule and demanded, “Food? Really?”

Her minion blinked. “Say what, now?”

“Food. Before that minor interruption, you were waxing rhapsodic on the qualities of Canterlot cuisine. We will not be stopping for any. That must be perfectly clear.”

“Um. I didn’t—that weren’t…” The old creature trailed off, staring at the Dark Lord Sassaflash in utter bemusement. Eventually, he gave a helpless little shrug, and said, “If’n you say so, Miss Sassaflash.”

“Yes, well. I do say so. Fine as the food may be, we will not be stopping. I cannot afford to purchase more train tickets, in any case. We will continue straight along to the Hollow Shades. Oh, would you kindly stop making those noises! Most of the stories about the Hollow Shades are greatly exaggerated. It was my foalhood home, in point of fact.”

“I ain’t sure that’s a comfort.”

“Indeed?” asked Sassaflash, in a voice that could have frozen helium.

“Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t sure it’s distressin’, neither. I just ain’t sure it’s a comfort.”

“Charming.” The Dark Lord gave him a sharp look. “On that subject, I would have words with you. It has become clear to me that your apparent humility during our initial encounter was a front. You have thoughts and opinions. These are counterproductive traits in a minion.”

“I also got a strong back, and you got a powerful heavy load o’ baggage there. Somepony’s gon’ have to carry it.”

“That fact was not lost on me, thank you. I have no immediate intention of dismissing you.” She scowled. “But no more insurrections.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he reassured her. “Mostly I only do that after eating a whole lot, or if’n I’ve had some soda pop. Also, sometimes I get a mite belchy.”

The only response he got to this statement was a bewildered stare. He smiled a vague, good-natured smile back. Eventually the Dark Lord lowered her head into her hooves, muttering, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Well, when you figure it out, you be sure to tell me,” said the Mule. He turned, looking out the windows at the towers of Canterlot shrinking behind them as the train sped on. “They’s one thing I ain’t clear on. We just left the home o’ the only Gods I know of, if’n you can call the Princesses that. What’s this God you’s fixing to kill?”

“’Eructation,’ maybe? But if that was it, why also mention belchi—I beg your pardon?” Sassaflash glanced down at the ancient book lying open in front of her, its yellowed pages scarred with weird, angular characters and unwholesome diagrams. One page was almost entirely taken up by a crude drawing of a sprawling, swollen thing, many-mouthed, its bloated body covered in curling grey fur—cilia?—and draped with many long, flabby flaps or limbs. A tiny stick-figure pony had been sketched into the lower left-hoof corner of the diagram, presumably to indicate scale. The artist had apparently had very grim tastes, for the stick figure was headless, and a trail of black ink spatters led away from it to a spot just below the bulging toad-slug-sloth thing, where small dark blots had been depicted gathering around an unseen object.

The Dark Lord looked up again. “A very old one, Mr. Mule.” Her voice regained some of its usual melodramatic grimness as she repeated, “A very great, old one.”

Author's Note

To life, to life, I'll bring it! I'll bring this dead fanfic to life! I have a weakness for purple prose, whenever I compose--I hope that causes no striiiiife!

Ahem. Right. Better late than never, I suppose. For once, I actually have a somewhat better excuse for the delay than--well, than nothing, which is the usual case. Following the second chapter, I'm afraid I got a bit bogged down when it came to figuring out the course that the ending should take, and due to the whole need to fling nice meaty bits of foreshadowing in, which is particularly important for a story like this in which the overall state of affairs is already well-known by one character and is slowly being revealed to the others in drips and drabs, I couldn't really move on until I'd pinned that down.* In fact, even as things are there may be a few necessary edits to the first two chapters; the Luna-themed introduction to the second chapter, for example, may or may not find itself on the chopping block. We'll see how that goes. At any rate, I hope you enjoy this, and as before, if anyone feels that I've hit some particularly offensive note with the Mule** (or indeed, with any of the other characters), please let me know.

*The primary problem was this: it did not incorporate enough quantum mechanics.*** I'm happy to say, though, that after extensive thought I have remedied this defect, and I'm sure you'll all enjoy the result, when it eventually arrives a few epochs from now. Unless you ascribe to the Copenhagen interpretation, that is, in which case I'm afraid there really is no hope for you.

**Whose dialect, for what it's worth, is modeled off of that of Appalachia. He doesn't really embody the culture, though, and I am aware of that; I just love the sound of the dialect itself, and couldn't resist using it for him. Please don't read too much into that; he's not intended to be a black southerner, or a mountain man, or anything else--he's a mule, in a land where mules are few and far between and are looked down upon in subtle and overt ways by many around them.

***Okay, okay, the main issue was how to get it to work into the storyline of the show in a less obtrusive way than Mendacity did, along with how to properly deal with fun thing like Redemption and Sin and Forgiveness and Mortality. The quantum mechanics was mostly accidental. A happy bonus, though, I admit.

(Edit:) Aaaand one brief last-minute change. Got a little grim there towards the middle. It's still grim, but not as much as it was.

Chapter 4

Paper rustled and lacquered wood clicked hollowly. A single taper flickered fitfully in the dimness of a cluttered store backroom, while nearby a grey shape wrapped in faded silks and brocades rifled through dusty heaps of books and artifacts, muttering absently to himself in a fidgeting language full of glottal stops and sudden shifts in tone. He snorted, and laid a copy of Whinny the Elder’s Naturalis Historia off to one side atop a stack of books: a Marechiavelli, an Ibn Khaylikan, and a pair of Sima Qilins. Those would all need to be reshelved in their proper places. Eventually, at least. He’d get around to it sooner or later.

A mounted cassowary skeleton, dusty and gnawed by boneworms, nearly collapsed on top of the shuffling creature, and his initial cry of surprise turned into a triumphant little exclamation. Draped atop the bird’s skull like some kind of surreal tiara was a blackened amulet, bearing a sharp-edged carving of an alicorn’s head in profile. The grey creature smiled, and scooped the amulet into a little satchel at his flank, already bulging with other pieces of jewelry and oddly-shaped objets d’art. There was nothing like having a few forbidden artifacts on display to boost one’s reputation as a vendor of strange and unspeakable things, and the Alicorn Amulet, its powers notwithstanding, was harmless enough compared to some of the other options. Anypony who recognized it would also know how monumentally stupid it would be to try to actually use it, making it about as safe as a forbidden artifact could possibly be. Definitely better than the Hinnysmouth gold he had been going to use; Tian knew he didn’t need any more attention from them.

The little bronze bell on the front door jingled, and the silk-clad stallion raised his head, his long queue swaying from the sudden movement. A customer! He turned and slid towards the front of his shop, snuffing the taper with a wave of his hoof as he passed by.

Two customers, amended the stallion, as he passed through the curtain hanging across the backroom door. One, a hooded and cloaked pony—probably a mare, to judge from her size—was already rummaging around through a stack of maps leaning against a dusty sarcophagus, while the other still stood in the doorway, shifting from side to side as though it wasn’t quite comfortable in its own hooves. The shopkeep wasn’t sure what kind of equine it was, although the outline was somehow familiar. Well, no matter. All types were welcome here, so long as their gold was good.

“Miss, I really ain’t sure this place is open,” drawled the awkward silhouette in a twanging, accented voice. It was a stallion, then. “It’s awful late. Shouldn’t we come back tomorrow?”

His cloaked companion looked up. “Nonsense. By the standards of the Hollow Shades, eleven at night is practically the start of the business day. The proprietor is no doubt watching us this very moment, and will shortly be making himself known to—Ah.”

A sharp one, this, thought the shopkeep, as he stepped forward, a newly lit lantern swinging from the crook of his left forehoof. In a polite tone tinged with just the right amount of mystery, he asked, “Can I help you, travelers?”

The mare doffed her hood and smiled a not-particularly-nice smile. “Good evening, Odsin-qiánbèi. It’s been a while. How is business?”

There was something strangely familiar about the mare’s voice, something the shopkeep couldn’t quite place. “It—it goes well. Do I know you, traveler?” There was decidedly less mystique in his voice this time around. His visitor tilted her head.

“You’ve forgotten? Hardly surprising, I suppose. But let me refresh your memory, Odsin Ends. Eight years ago it would be, now. A young pegasus, recently exiled, entered your shop inquiring after a certain ancient Saddle Arabian text.. You told her, regretfully, that you did not have it in stock.” She raised a hoof and gave her cloak an idle nudge, shifting it into a more comfortable position. “You lied. And she knew it.”

The puzzled look remained on Odsin’s face for a fraction of a second longer, and then melted into a mask of horror. “Sassaflash!?”

The Dark Lord gave a curt little nod. “The same. I imagine that you will not be particularly pleased to see me, so I won’t trouble you long; I merely wish to obtain—“

“What are you doing here?” Gesturing angrily towards the open door, the stallion spat, “Get out of my shop! Get out of this town! Whatever you’re looking for, I don’t have—you shouldn’t be here at all! You were banished!”

“A fact,” snapped the pegasus, “that I am not likely to forget. Banishment notwithstanding, I have returned. Moreover, I believe you do have what I am looking for—and I have no intention of leaving with an empty saddlebag.”

The two ponies stared daggers at one another across the dimly lit room, a pair of tense shadows amidst the high-heaped piles of charms, bric-a-brac, and oddments cluttering the shop. Finally, Odsin Ends gave an angry snort and turned from the counter, pushing aside the heavy cloth of the backroom curtain. “I am closed for business. Consider yourself lucky I don’t report you to the watch. Get out of my shop, witch.”

“Witch?” With an indignant whinny, Sassaflash trotted forward. “The Dark Lord Sassaflash is no mere witch! What did I ever do that could be called witchcraft?”

In spite of himself, the shopkeep looked over his shoulder at the petulant mare, letting the curtain fall back into place with a muted swish. “What did you—you can’t be serious. The Tindalos Hounds you nearly summoned? The grave robbing? Your meetings with those ghouls? The Yuggothoth that came to my shop looking for you after you—“ He paused, breathing heavily, and then continued, “Well, after you did whatever it was you did to annoy them? Then there was your invocation of the Gate and Key, not to mention the thing you created from the body of your own—“

“Yes, thank you, Odsin, that will do,” snapped Sassaflash. “That will do. Your point is made.” She glanced back. “You’re scaring my minion.”

Looking up from his perusal of a torn manuscript poking out from beneath a broken skull, the Mule said, “Oh, don’t you fret none, Miss Sassaflash. I ain’t skeert. I do got me some questions, though.”

Odsin Ends directed an uncertain stare at the Mule and gave a nervous, high-pitched laugh. “Your minion! And what is he, necromancer? He doesn’t look like any pony I’ve seen—he’s one of them, isn’t he? Wrapped in some poor pony’s skin, pretending to be normal, pretending to be under your control, just biding his time until—“

“I’m a mule, actually,” said the Mule, who had decided at this point that the manuscript held little interest and was now trying on a Zebrican spirit mask. “Might also be one o’ ‘them,’ but as I don’t know what kind o’ critters ‘them’ is I can’t say one way or t’other. Miss Sassaflash, look here. They ain’t no eye holes in this thing.”

“I—Oh.” The hyperventilating shopkeep paused. “My apologies.” Shaking his head and turning his attention back to the Dark Lord, he continued, “But that doesn’t change anything. You must get out of my shop, and get out of it now. I don’t know what twisted abomination of dark magic you’re looking for, but—

“A map of the Hippoborean glacial wastes and a bundle of dried worrywort,” said Sassaflash curtly. “Mr. Mule, don’t touch that, it’s delicate.”

“—no matter what it is, I will be dead before I let it pass into your perverted clutches, to be put to some nefandous—what?” Odsin’s impassioned speech ground to a screeching halt. “Wait. You just want…”

“A map, yes. And some herbs. I wish for them to pass into my perverted clutches so that I may brew some nefandous medicinal tea. On that subject, ‘nefandous?’ Really, Odsin?”

“I—you?—excuse me.” The stallion propped himself up on the worn wooden countertop with one hoof, massaging his forehead with the other as he muttered, “Map’s harmless enough, and the worrywort—Hah!” He looked up, triumph shining in his eyes, and slapped his hoof down on the countertop with a resounding thwack. “Worrywort! It’s an amnesiac! You’re going to drug somepony with it. You are up to no good.” A manic grin on his face, he repeated, “Get out of my shop!”

“It is, but I am not, I am, and I most certainly will not, in that order. Drug somepony with worrywort?” queried Sassaflash. “You are unhinged, Odsin. Such a thing is possible with very large doses, but hardly practical. There are simpler methods, without the associated gastrointestinal side effects.” She cast an indifferent eye around the dusky shop, taking in the long, snaking chains of dried herbs hanging down out of the darkness of the rafters overhead, the dusty jars sealed with wax and holding half-obscured objects of disturbing shape, and the occasional metallic charm or amulet, shining sharp-angled in the shadows and inscribed with weirdly looping characters. “At a glance, you have at least five such superior methods available for sale, although I would recommend throwing out the letheroot; it looks stale. Possibly decomposed. Difficult to tell with letheroot, sometimes.”

“You can’t have them, either,” said Odsin.

Striking the countertop with her forehoof, the Dark Lord said, “I don’t want them, I want worrywort and a Hippoborean map. And you will provide them, willingly or otherwise.”

There was a pause, broken only by the popping, hissing sounds of the Mule’s discovery that the jarful of Princess Rupert’s Drops he had been investigating was more fragile than he had initially thought. Sassaflash and Odsin Ends both flinched at the sound, and Odsin briefly made the whimpering noise of a shopkeep who has just heard forty bits’ worth of merchandise explode into worthless glass fragments, but neither looked away from the other. Seconds passed in silence.

Odsin scowled.

Sassaflash narrowed her eyes.

And then, quite suddenly, Odsin Ends looked aside and muttered, “Hippoborean maps’re next to the pile of stuffed swordfish. Worrywort’s in the backroom, I’ll get it. That’ll be fifteen bits, plus forty for the Princess Rupe—“

Sassaflash glared.

“Like I was saying, that’ll be fifteen bits.”

“Acceptable,” nodded the Dark Lord. “Mr. Mule, kindly look through the indicated stack and find a map showing northern Hippoborea. Two ‘P’s, yes. No ‘Y.’ There should be a large mountain, four-peaked, drawn somewhere in the center. That,” she continued, turning to the shopkeep as he came shuffling out from behind his curtain holding a sheaf of dried leaves wrapped in paper, “is poison oak, not worrywort.”

“My mistake,” growled Odsin. “I’ll just go correct that, shall I?”

“See that you d—that is wolfsbane.”

“Oops.”

The resentful merchant trudged back off to the shop’s storage vault, and at length there came a series of emphatic and somehow angry rustlings and clatterings as he searched for the right herb. Evidently, thought Sassaflash, he kept irritatants and deadly poisons closer to hoof than medicinal herbs. Not that she judged him for it; it was his business. And this was the Hollow Shades. A merchant had to know his customers, after all.

Hoofsteps sounded behind her, and turning she saw the Mule approaching with several yellowed maps, some rolled and some folded, clutched gingerly in his mouth. With a curt nod of thanks she extended one of her wings and cupped the proffered maps against her primaries, sorting through them with her forehoof. No, no, out of date by a few centuries in some places and a few millennia in others, covered in pink hearts and dominated by a garish depiction of Rudolph’s workshop, peculiar and unsettling odor, big blank space labeled “Here there be wendigos”—hardly any use, as she knew that already—Ah. Odsin’s background muttering grew suddenly louder, signaling his imminent return, and the lemon-maned pegasus smiled and laid one of the maps down on the counter, while the Mule shuffled off to put the others back where he’d found them.

A sheaf of dried leaves landed with a soft thump next to the map, and Sassaflash smiled, showing just a few more teeth than was strictly necessary. “Thank you, Odsin. This map, if you please, along with the worrywort. Fifteen bits, I believe.”

“Yes,” growled the stallion. He slid the small pile of coins across the countertop, glancing at the half-unrolled map as he did so. “I know I will regret asking this, but what is your business with Hippoborea?”

“That is my concern.”

“Perhaps,” scowled the shopkeep. “But unless you’ve changed a great deal, ‘your concerns’ are prone to becoming everypony’s concerns.” He nudged the heavy roll of paper further open with his hoof. “There’s nothing there but a few ruins, and they’ve been picked clean these thousand years, at least.”

Raising an eyebrow, the Dark Lord said, “Perhaps I go there for the aesthetic beauties of the place. Perhaps I have become an outdoorsmare, and wish to try my hoof at mountain climbing.” She bit her lip and hurriedly added, “Or perhaps I have taken up glaciology, that too might well be the explanation for—“

“Mountain climbing…” murmured Odsin Ends. He stared at the map for a few moments longer, and then raised his eyes, looking across at the Dark Lord in growing incredulity. “Mountain climbing. You can’t possibly be thinking—even you wouldn’t—you will die.”

The Mule’s long ears twitched to attention. Sassaflash scowled. “Kindly lift that hoof and let me have that map.”

The hoof stayed in place. “I am serious. Go home, Sassaflash. You may think that because you’ve tricked some of the lesser beings that a greater one is within your scope, but you are wrong.” He made a broad, low, slicing gesture for emphasis. “You will simply die. There is no other way it can end.”

“Your concern,” retorted the pegasus, in a voice drier than the sands of the Rub al Khayli desert, “has been noted—baffling as it may be, given that you just tried to poison me with aconite. I would have thought you’d be pleased.”

Odsin waved a hoof irritably. “As if you wouldn’t have known it as soon as you saw it. Look, witch—yes, fine, necromancer, whatever pleases you. It’s true I would be overjoyed if I knew I would never see you again. But I don’t want you to die. And if you do this thing—if you enter Mount Voormithadreth, which you must plan to, as there’s nothing else there for you—you will not survive. Perhaps it will be quick, perhaps slow, but there—there is nothing else there. There is no other way it can end.”

Sassaflash regarded the shopkeep in silence, eyes narrowed and ears flattened. Then, quite suddenly, she scooped the map and worrywort into her saddlebag and made an abrupt about-face. “Come, Mr. Mule.” She trotted across the room and out the front door without another word to Odsin Ends. At the threshold she said, “It is time we found lodgings for the night,” and then swished out of sight, her cloak billowing around her.

“Wait,” called the shopkeep, as the Dark Lord’s minion began to plod after her. “She may be a mule-headed idiot—no offense—“

Mild, dark eyes blinked a long, slow, deliberate blink. The Mule smiled. “None taken.”

“—but you don’t have to be mixed up in this. She is plunging towards a cliff. Get out of this now before she drags you off the edge.”

The Mule considered this, slowly chewing his lower lip as Odsin Ends stared nervously at him. Then, raising his head, he said, “I’m mighty sorry about them glass things o’ yourn. I’ll pay for all on ‘em when I got some cash again.” He trudged out the door and, turning, gave one last little nod of his head. “Evening, Mr. Ends.”

It had taken a while to find an inn. The Hollow Shades, sunk deep in the shadows of the surrounding mountains and hemmed in by thick, dark pines, were a disorganized maze of ancient buildings that had been patched into existence out of the decaying fragments of even more ancient structures. Early Exilium lath-and-plaster sprouted up from antediscordian foundations, themselves fused with Unicornian stonework built on rammed earth berms from some long-forgotten paleopony culture. Winding in and around and through these hodgepodge structures were meandering alleyways and paths, paved with cobblestones worn smooth by millennia of use and overshadowed by thick, mildewed eaves sagging outward over the walls and alleys like gigantic toadstool caps. Perhaps in some distant past the streets had been laid out in a neat grid pattern, sensible and practical, but if so that order had long since been erased as buildings had been built and burned, expanded and demolished.

Curiously, it seemed to the Mule as though something other than the city’s byzantine streets was foiling his employer’s efforts to find shelter. No matter how many branching side streets led off their path and no matter how narrow and twisting the alleyway, she seemed to always know precisely the path she wanted to take—and those paths, each in their turn, had in fact led to no less than five inns and taverns. But Sassaflash had turned, scowling, away from each and every one, and slunk back off into the labyrinth, shouldering her way past the bemused Mule.

It took nearly an hour, but after maneuvering their way through a particularly crowded little side street, its cobbles choked with abandoned carts and refuse, Sassaflash finally gave a short, sharp smile of satisfaction instead of her customary snarl. They stood before a queer, lopsided inn, fronting a cobbled plaza and half-slumping into a sunken street to its right, as though it had been sculpted of moist clay and then slapped down, hard, on an uneven surface. Warm light shone out of its unbroken windows, though, and its thatching was dry and golden in the yellow lamplight of the plaza. The Dark Lord trotted forward, beckoning for her minion to follow.

As the pegasus peered suspiciously through the open top of the inn’s half door, the Mule ventured, “Miss Sassaflash? Seems like you know this town real good; why go to all them other places first?”

“Silence is a virtue, Mr. Mule.”

A puzzled blink. “What’s that got to do with anything?“

With a petulant huff, Sassaflash abandoned her attempts at stealth and snapped, “This is the town’s mundane inn, and its location changes, Mr. Mule. I knew where the inns were. I did not know where this inn was. Now kindly be silent. The Dark Lord Sassaflash is…” She paused, evidently at a loss for a verb, and then muttered, “…irritated.”

“Hold up a minute. When you say ‘changes,’ you ain’t—“

“Irritated, I say!” Pushing the lower half of the door open with her hoof, the mare trotted into the inn. The innkeeper, a weary-looking pegasus playing a game of darts using a board across the room, her own primary quills, and dexterous flicks of her wings, gave a little ear twitch as the two entered but didn’t bother turning.

“Innkeep,” bellowed Sassaflash, “I require one room, two beds, clean, spare furnishings, poor sound insulation, ground floor, and non-eldritch. For the night. Can you meet these criteria?”

The old pegasus looked over with bleary eyes and started, drawing a sharp breath. “You! You’re—“

“A paying customer,” concluded Sassaflash smoothly. “A well-paying customer. My previous question stands.”

The proprietor hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged. “Fine. It’s no mud on my quills.” She turned to a rack of keys hanging on the wall behind her. “They’ve all got bad insulation; I hate getting stuck with this place. 5A’s ground floor, two beds. Beats me how eldritch it is. Will that do?”

“Yes,” said the Dark Lord.

“No,” said her minion.

“Yes,” she repeated, giving him a death glare.

“But miss, it ain’t proper. We shouldn’t ought to be staying in just one room. I’m a mmm—“ He hummed in hesitation, stuck with a syllable that, for some reason, he didn’t seem to want to use for anything, and then his face brightened and he concluded, “—mmmule. A mule. Ponies’d talk.”

One long, expressionless stare later, the Dark Lord said, “This is the year 1002, not the 800s. We will be spending the next few months alone, in the wilderness, together. If this offends your oh-so-delicate sensibilities, I suggest you get over it. Is this clear, Mr. ‘Mmmule?’”

The Mule considered this, crinkled his face up in what was, possibly, an effort to rewire his propriety, and then gave a small uncertain nod. “Yes, Miss Sassaflash.”

“Yes. Well.” She eyed him askance, and then turned her attention back to the pony at the front desk. “Good. 5A will be satisfactory, innkeep.” Glancing back at the Mule, she added, “Do try to make sure that it’s proper enough.”

An hour or so later, in a room graced with enhanced propriety in the form of a sheet draped from a clothesline that the bleary-eyed innkeeper had stretched across the room at the Mule’s behest (“We don’t wear clothes! What are you so afraid of seeing? The bed? I fail to understand the source of scandal, here.” “I just don’t feel right about it, Miss Sassaflash. Yes ma’am, that’ll do. Just droop it up on over, just like that. Thankee kindly”), the Mule lay back in his bed, his pillow over his eyes as he tried to ignore the sound of the Dark Lord scribbling away in her half of the room, working by candlelight on…something. The sound of quill scratching against paper grew no less insistent, though, and eventually he gave it up as a lost cause. Propping himself up, he looked across at the black silhouette of the pegasus cast against the sheet, and said, “What might you be a-working on, Miss?”

The silhouette paused. Speaking around the quill, it said, “’At is ‘ardly your ‘on’ern.”

Scratching one of his long ears with an extended forehoof, the Mule rejoined, “I reckon it is, though. I’m on this quest too, ain’t I? And you been carrying ‘round a whole heap o’ secrets, and they keeps on piling up, one arter t’other. Pretty soon, they gon’ get too heavy for you to carry at all. You don’t got Miss Sweetie Belle around no more to talk to, and lighten the load.”

Spitting the quill out on her bed, Sassaflash said, “My secrets are not a burden. I choose to carry them.”

“That don’t mean they ain’t burdensome,” observed her minion. “Anyhow, I’m gonna need some questions answered afore I go much further on this quest o’ yourn. I want to know what I’m getting myself into.”

The silhouette of the slender pegasus sat still, its edges shivering and dancing in the light of her bedside candles. Then she shrugged. “Very well. But I cannot guarantee all your questions will be answered. And I must pose some questions of you, as well. You have shown signs of unexpected complexity, and unless understood, such complexity is a liability in a minion.”

“Fair enough,” nodded the Mule. “I’ll ask you something, then you ask me, alright?” He bit his lip, thinking. “Lessee, now…What did you do to get the folks hereabouts so het up? Don’t you got no kin to stand up for you?”

Sassaflash stiffened. “Ask a different question.”

Mulish eyebrows rose, but the old creature didn’t pursue the point. “Alrighty. What’s the point behind this whatchamacallit—this deicide? What you got agin’ the ‘very great, very old one’ you was talking about? And don’t it got no particular name, what for to call it by?”

After some consideration, the Dark Lord answered, “Your first question has quite a simple answer: global domination. And No, I will not elaborate on that point. With regard to your second, this Thing—this Great Old One—is an abomination and a blasphemy. It should not be. Any resident of this universe who truly understood what It was, and still retained their sanity, would not hesitate to blot It out forever. You can call that my reason for wanting to destroy It, if you will. Certainly that is part of the motivation behind this journey.”

“What about its name, though? Don’t it got none?”

“Yes, It—that is, no, It—hm.” The mare trailed off, evidently unsure how to deal with the double negative. The shadow of her head bent down as, in contemplative silence, she considered the book spread before her. Her silence lasted for so long, indeed, that the Mule was almost beginning to think that that was all, and she was simply not going to tell him—but then, quite abruptly, she raised her head and looked towards him, the shadows of her ears flattened to either side of her head. “It has a number of names. ‘St. Toad,’ if you wish to be fanciful. ‘The Sleeper of N’kai,’ if you wish to be informative. ‘Zhothaqquah,’ if you wish to be antiquated.”

She paused, and then finished, “And Tsathoggua if you wish to be both accurate, and reckless.”

“Sath…?” hazarded the Mule.

“Don’t try to say it,” said the mare, hurriedly. “Don’t say it at all, in fact. I probably shouldn’t have. Now, I have a question for you. Earlier, during your little bout of prudishness, you started to object to our sharing a room because you were, and I quote, “a mmmmm.” You finished the consonant with “mule,” but that was clearly not what you had originally intended to say. Elucidate.”

“Oh, ‘t’weren’t nothing,” muttered the Mule, suddenly quiet. He traced an awkward little circle in his bed sheets with a forehoof. “Only I was a-going to say ‘married,’ but, well, Missus Mule, she done passed away this summer last. But I ain’t quite used to it yet, so…” He shrugged.

“Ah.” On her side of the dividing sheet, Sassaflash bit her lip. “I am, ah, sorry. For your loss, and…and so on and so forth.” She paused, and then, with more of her usual fire, continued, “But if you were hoping for me to bring her back, regrettably I am not able to do so, and I will not have you badgering me on that point. Necromancy is a delicate art, with certain…limitations. Barring very special circumstances, resurrection is usually impossible for any pony that has not been dead for at least two hundred years, as a general rule. I am sorry, but this must be understood, Mr. Mule.”

The Mule nodded. “Understood, Miss Sassaflash.“

“Good.” The Dark Lord blinked. “But why the prudishness if you’re unmarried, then?”

“Oh, miss, no!” exclaimed the Mule, shocked. “That don’t make no difference! Once wed, always wed, you know.”

“I don’t actually, no. I mean, I don’t know. I mean…” She shook her head. “What happened to ’Til death do us part?’ A sweet sentiment, but it does imply an eventual parting.”

“Maybe that’s how ponies does things, and maybe that suits ‘em,” said the Mule. “But mules does things different. We don’t think that dying parts two folks who’s really in love with each other.”

“That’s not been my experience,” muttered the mare, a twinge of bitterness staining her voice. She scowled, suddenly peevish. “Are you quite finished, Mr. Mule? No more questions for me? I have work to do.”

“Not quite, Miss Sassaflash, not quite. I got a whole heap o’ questions yet, actually.”

“Most unfortunately, I do not possess a ‘whole heap o’ time.’” She gestured at the book in front of her. “I have much reading to do. You will have to satisfy yourself with only one further query.”

“Well, if’n that’s the way it is.” The Mule thought for a moment. “What are you reading, anyhow? You’ve had your nose buried in that book like a hound dog with its head down a rabbit hole. What’re you reading up on? What kind o’ book is it?”

The pegasus’ silhouette shivered, but it was only the dancing of the candlelight. She closed her book and scooped up one of the bedside candles, setting it atop the cover in front of her so that the flame, twisting in the draught of her breath, cast faint phantoms against the sheet, the walls, and the ceiling. Without taking her eyes off of the candle flame, she asked, “Do you know what horses were, Mr. Mule?”

“I reckon. Caveponies, right? From back afore the paleopony period? Only I heard tell they’s still some living off down in the Orient.”

“’The Orient?’” Sassaflash raised an eyebrow. “If by that you mean Saddle Arabia, then yes, there is some of the old blood still there, and the ponies of that land are sometimes mistakenly referred to as such. But horses, true horses, are long gone, leaving only their descendants, the ponies, in their place.”

Leaning forward, she blew out the candle in front of her, and a thin wisp of smoke swirled up into the air, backlit against the screening sheet by the remaining candles. Reaching out a hoof, the pegasus caught and shaped the smoke, sculpting it like a weather pony would sculpt a cloud to form it into a shape both like and unlike that of a pony. A twitch of her fetlock and its legs lengthened, while a delicate beat of her wings shaped its back and its neck into long, thick, arching forms. Its legs were long and slender, far more graceful even than those of an alicorn, but its body had a strange, thick solidity to it, and its head was long and disturbingly proportioned. Sassaflash lowered her hoof, allowing the construct to drift gently down through the air, and then spoke again.

“They knew the cosmos as we do not. They were wise in the secret ways, and they knew and worshipped the true Gods of the cosmos, not the petty little pretenders that rule from Canterlot. Magic they knew, strange magic, forbidden magic, and the least of their dwimmer-crafters would have been the equal of the greatest pony mage who has ever lived, in power if not necessarily in learning.”

She sighed. “And that was their downfall. It’s an old trap, a very old trap, and it always works, once a civilization has allowed itself to be lured into it. Let one race escape the pitfalls set for ‘lesser’ beings, let them grow fat and proud, and convince them that they, and they alone, truly have the ear and the favor of the Great Old Ones. Then, use them. Let them be your tools among mortals, tormenting and destroying rising cultures, and when there is no more use for them—” Sassaflash swept her hoof through the drifting figure, tearing it into fading ribbons of smoke. “—let the Chaos crawl up and through them, rotting them from within and bringing down all their glory and splendor. The starfish things, the horses, and now, I suppose, the Yuggothoth. Only the Great Race that came from Yith has escaped that fate, and they spend their entire existence on the run, fleeing eternally from enemies they cannot hope to face in open battle. Fleeing from the three-lobed fiery eye, from the tongue that bleeds out of the sky…”

She drifted into silence, watching as the last swirling whorls of smoke dissipated. Then, lifting her head, she said, “This book is the same book that I purchased from Odsin Ends eight years ago, and the book that he has regretted selling to me every day since. This book has been passed from hoof, to claw, to paw, to tentacle for hundreds upon thousands of years, and will continue to do so long after I myself am dust within a jar on some necromancer’s shelf. This book has cost lives, driven ponies to insanity, raised horrors, destroyed civilizations.”

Drawing a breath, she finished, “This is the Equunomicon. This is ‘The Book of the Ways of Horses,’ bound in leather and written by a mad Saddle Arabian stallion who had caught glimpses of deep time that no pony should ever witness, and heard the whining and howling of ghosts on the desert wind. I am its keeper—and it, for now, is mine.”

Chapter 5

Morning dawned in the Hollow Shades. There was no birdsong, save perhaps for a distant twittering echo. There was no flood of light, shining through the windowpanes and melting the shadows. The air went unquickened. Exposed skin went unwarmed. The dewdrops clinging to the chilled ropes hanging over the streets did not glisten.

Yet morning dawned, nonetheless.

A heaped mound of coarse bedding stirred, and the Mule’s lumpy head rose blearily up from the covers, his eyes half-open. The light seeping into the room was diffuse and filled with deep, quiet blues. The ungainly beast slumped out of bed, clomped over to the room’s solitary window, and looked out, shivering in the sunless chill.

Mist eddied through the streets, pouring down cobbled stairs and off eaves in slow, silent runnels. Above the mist rose the hodgepodge buildings of the Hollow Shades, leaning crookedly one way and another and draped with moss and decay, and above them, far in the distance, the Mule could see the dark branches of a pine forest choking the surrounding slopes.

He could not, however, see the sky.

“Hmph,” said the Mule, puzzled. He turned, ambling out of the room and down the creaky-floored hallway, and after a wrong turn or two found his way outside. Planting his haunches on the cold cobbles, he looked up.

Rock and pine trees.

“Hmph.”

He looked further up. Then, craning his neck back, he looked further up still. A river of robin’s-egg blue sky snaked jaggedly far overhead, its banks the peaks of great mountain-cliffs. The village lay far below, nestled at the bottom of a gigantic crevasse in the surrounding hills. It had been dark when the train had pulled into the town’s dingy little station, and although the Mule had felt the train descending for many miles before the end of their journey, he had assumed—naturally—that the surface had been descending along with the train. Apparently not. The Hollow Shades, mused the old creature, more than earned its name.

Hooves sounded on the stone street behind him. Turning, he saw the Dark Lord Sassaflash approaching. She nodded a curt greeting as she came alongside him and looked up, her gaze following the veins of ore and sediment in the rock as it rose up to meet the meandering wedge of sky far overhead.

“It will fall someday, Mr. Mule. All of it. There will come some great tremor in the Earth, this canyon will crumble in upon itself, and the Hollow Shades will simply cease to be. Nopony will escape.” White mist swirled from her nostrils in the chill air. “But that was true a thousand years ago. It was true ten thousand years ago. We are mayflies, all of us, and live our little lives so quickly that a pebble may fall, so—“ She scooped up a fragment of rock with her hoof and let it drop. “—And generations will live and die on that pebble before it strikes the ground. When it does, everything they ever built or dreamed or fought or hoped for will be smashed into nihility—but why should they worry, when the pebble is still falling and there are vast milliseconds yet before its journey is over?”

There was an impressive pause. Then the Mule coughed. “That ain’t a real word, is it?”

“Is what?”

“Nihility.”

“It is a perfectly acceptable word! Moderately obscure, perhaps—that is hardly relevant—I was musing on the pointlessness of—Oh, forget it.” The pegasus ruffled her wings in exasperation. “Just—go fetch our supplies from the room. The train to Hippoborea will be leaving in a few hours, but we should prepare for departure now. A different inn is scheduled to be mundane today, and this one will soon be attracting unsavory clientele that we would do best to avoid. There must be no chance for mishap, Mr. Mule.”

“No, Miss Sassaflash.”

Supplies were fetched and damages paid (It transpired that there were large deposits of candle wax soaked into the sheets of Sassaflash‘s bed. She had insisted she had had nothing to do with it, but the innkeeper had been curiously disinclined to believe her), and soon the Dark Lord and her minion were walking along the streets of the Hollow Shades once more, bound for the train station. Some of the town’s residents were out and about, either trotting along on some business of their own or setting up stands in a web of interconnected streets and alleys that Sassaflash informed the Mule was the town’s central marketplace.

“—And those with deeper pockets can rent out those storefronts, there, for three months or until the premises are attacked by demonic forces, whichever comes first. No dawdling, Mr. Mule. We must hurry.”

The knobble-kneed creature, tottering under the weight of the bags and burdens heaped high on his back, lurched forward in an attempt to keep up with the pegasus mare. “Begging your pardon, miss, I’m sure, but these ain’t light. I’m moving fast as I can.”

“Yes, well.” She glanced fitfully at the ponies around them. “I would prefer to reach some less-frequented part of town. It would be inconvenient if I were to—“ She jolted to a halt, staring at a tall blue unicorn mare, robed in white, standing at attention down one of the marketplace’s streets. “—If I were to meet her, for instance. Hlirgh chtenffnyth… Follow me. Quickly!”

The Mule, who had had to veer sharply to the right to avoid hitting Sassaflash when she had so abruptly halted, managed to regain his balance. Swinging around to follow her with all the ponderousness of a cargo ship at sea, he asked, “Who is you trying to keep clear of?”

A barely perceptible hesitation. “The town Watch. Blind idiots, the lot of them. Think they’re heroes. This way.” She ducked into the shadows of a darker alleyway, its top almost completely covered over by the sagging eaves of the adjacent houses. “Hurry, Mr. Mule, hurry! She could look this way any—wait, where is she? She was standing right there. Quick, get in here, get out of sight, I will not be tangled up in—Blast.“

There was a sound of approaching hoofsteps. The white-clad watchpony suddenly appeared around the alley’s corner, peering at the two with an odd, disbelieving look on her face. Sassaflash hid her face under her hood and, in a peculiarly husky voice, asked, “Can I help you, officer?”

The tall mare simply looked at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Finally, in a small, incredulous voice, she said, “…Sass?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the Dark Lord threw back her hood. “Yes, alright, it’s me. Hello Starshade, how are you doing, yes it’s been a while, goodbye. I think that covers it, don’t you?”

“Sass! What are you doing here? You were banished, you shouldn’t be—the Watch’ll—Oh no.” The unicorn stopped, horrorstruck. “I’m the watch! I have to—but I can’t—Oh no.”

“I did wonder about those nice new robes of yours, Star.” Sassaflash tilted her head, inspecting them critically. “I cannot say they suit you. Well, goodbye. Come, Mr. Mule. We have no business here.” She turned and started to trot away.

“Wait!” The watchpony cringed at the sound of her voice, too loud for the cramped alleyway. “Wait,” she repeated, reaching out a hoof. “Don’t go.”

Looking back, Sassaflash inquired, “Am I under arrest, officer?”

Starshade sighed. “You should be. But—look, it doesn’t have to be this way. Come home, Sass. We can work something out. We can make it better. I’m sure of it. Dad doesn’t say anything, but I know he misses you.”

The Mule shuffled away from the two ponies. He had the strangest notion that it might be wise for him to make himself scarce.

Sassaflash stiffened. Rounding on the blue watchpony with a snarl, she hissed, “Oh does he? Does he indeed? My heart bleeds for him. Perhaps he should have thought about that before he voted to banish me!

The Mule’s evasive shuffling intensified. Her ears drooping, the watchpony said, “Don’t be like that, please? It was a long time ago, and with the other council members—there couldn’t be any exceptions, for anypony—he didn’t have a choice—“

“No choice?” spat the Dark Lord, glaring up at her. “No choice? Oh, he had a choice, Star. He could been brave. For once, just once in his life, he could have been brave.” She scowled. “He chose not to be.”

“Sass, it broke Dad’s heart to exile you!” Starshade frowned. “But what you did was horrible. You can’t get around that.”

“Oh yes I can. I committed no sin,” said Sassaflash, her voice tense and controlled. “My only crime was being the only brave foal in a herd of cowards."

Stamping the ground with her forehoof, the mare growled, “We weren’t cowardly, we were smart. We knew not to meddle with those forces.“

“You were afraid to.”

“For good reason!” She gestured wildly with her forehoof, and a small flame of magic kindled at the tip of her horn. “Did your ‘bravery’ make things better, Sassaflash? Did it?”

For a moment neither of them said a word, Starshade flushed and angry and Sassaflash a statue of cold fury. Then the Dark Lord spoke. “I failed, yes, but I tried! I was the only one of you who had the courage to try! And when I had tried, and failed—failed because I was just a foal, Star, just a foal and still better than all the rest of you put together—you blamed and punished me for your own cowardice.” She turned, her cloak swirling around her. “Goodbye.”

The sound of the Dark Lord’s departing hoofsteps was made conspicuous by its absence. Teeth gritted, Sassaflash hissed, “Let go.”

“I—I can’t do that, Sassaflash. I’m sorry.” Pale pink magic swirled around the pegasus’ hooves, binding her to the ground. Starshade swallowed, and continued, her voice quavering, “I thought you might have changed, but you’ve—you’ve only gotten worse. I have to take you to the council.”

“I would like to see you try. Fm’latgh ehyehai, uaaah.“ With a plinking sound like overheated metal cooling, the magic lapping at her hooves drifted to a sluggish halt and crumbled into dull gray dust. “I truly would. I’m out of your league, Starshade.”

The unicorn’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “That was Aklo. You just spoke Aklo! Only servants of the Dark Ones—“

“I am a master, not a servant! Now leave me be. I mean the Hollow Shades no har—oh, would you stop that! Fm’latgh ehy—mmph!”

A gag of rosy magic materialized across Sassaflash‘s mouth, preventing her from finishing the spell. Starshade managed a fearful frown. “I know some tricks too, Sass. I was trained by the Watch to stop ponies like you, and you aren’t the only one who’s read some old, secret—How did you do that!?”

“Remarkably easily,” spat the necromancer, stepping out of the crumbling remnants of the binding spell. Ash drifted away from her face where the magical gag had been a moment before. “You are beginning to vex me, Starshade.”

“But that shouldn’t have been possible—you couldn’t say the words, I was sure that would—stay away!” Scampering back, she whisked a piece of chalk from the interior of her robes and, clutching it in a web of magic, began marking long, desperate lines on the cobblestones between her and the Dark Lord. “Stay away, I know the Elder Sign—“

Sassaflash cocked her head. “What are you doi—no.” Her ears flattened back against her skull. “No! Stop, you idiot, stop, that isn’t what you think it is—“

“—Their servants fear it, I know they do, you won’t hurt me if I draw—“

“I said stop!” There was a small crunching sound, and for a moment the entire world seemed to lurch unsteadily, as though some fundamental part of it had just been withdrawn. The Mule nearly stumbled, but managed to right himself again. Sassaflash winced, but otherwise showed no sign that she had felt anything.

And Starshade, struck motionless as an insect pinned to a board, stood stock still and then slumped to one side, toppling like a felled tree. She hit the ground hard and lay there, her mouth agape and her eyes rolled back in her head. The chalk she had been holding rolled across the unfinished sigil on the cobbles and came to rest near Sassaflash‘s hoof.

“Idiot.” Kicking the chalk out of the way as she stepped forward, the Dark Lord approached the fallen watchpony, averting her eyes from the chalk lines beneath her hooves. She knelt down beside the stricken pony. “I know you can hear me, Starshade. Take this as a warning. If I had been a mi-go, your brain would have been removed from your body by now, and would be residing in one of their cylinders. If I had been a ghoul, you would now be either dead, or well on your way to becoming one of them yourself. If I had been a seapony…Well. I’d describe what would have happened to you, but there is a gentlecolt present.” She gestured behind her at the Mule, who had been hoping that he had been forgotten and was disappointed to learn that that wasn’t the case.

Sassaflash rose to her hooves again, and in an almost pitying tone said, “Yes, dark things fear the Elder Sign, but did you never think to ask yourself why they fear it? They are slaves of the Great Old Ones—slaves of Their priest, the Dreaming God–and what does a slave fear most?"

She shook her head. “You’re out of your depth, you poor foal. Get out of the water before you’re eaten. Mr. Mule, come here. Help me get my sister up on my back. Most unfortunately, we will be making a small detour before our departure.”

The Mule did not move, earning an irritated growl from his employer. “Did you not hear me? I said come here!”

With great reluctance, he plodded forward. “Oh, miss…your own flesh and blood! Your kin! What did you do to her?”

“Do?” Sassaflash sniffed. “Staunch that bleeding heart of yours, Mr. Mule. I did nothing. She’s fine.”

A moment of silence. They both looked at the prone pony, sprawled corpse-like on the paving stones. “She don’t look fine,” said the Mule.

“Yes, alright, okay. She won’t be able to stand for a day, will have a splitting headache for a week, and won’t be able to use magic for a month. In all other respects she is the picture of health, and will make a splendid recovery unless something eats her, which is moderately probable. Come here and help me.”

Her minion wrapped an awkward forehoof around the limp unicorn, and struggled to shoulder her up on to the Dark Lord’s back. “But what did you do to her?”

“Uhf. Her calorie intake appears to have been considerable. Watch the wings. And if you must know, I drained her of her magic.” She tilted her head and spat out several slender fragments of broken clay, their surfaces scribed with strange symbols, and pulled her hood back up, hiding her face.

“But how—“

“Oh, for goodness’ sake! Magic flows, Mr. Mule, and like water it seeks the lowest possible ‘elevation.’ Sources of magic are like mountaintops, and magical sinks are deep valleys. The pieces I just spat out were the seal on one end of a conduit I created, with the other ‘end’ located in a swamp near Canterlot that possesses an unnaturally low level of background magic. When I broke the seal, the conduit was opened, and all magic in our immediate vicinity flowed through it. We two were hardly affected, but to a unicorn, the shock of suddenly being drained in such a way is intense, and not something to be quickly recovered from. And yes, I do normally carry such a seal around in my mouth. The practice has saved my life multiple times.”

“But don’t—“

“Yes, Mr. Mule, I do at times accidentally swallow them. The inconvenience and discomfort, I find, is worth it.”

To the Mule’s surprise, the sight of him and the Dark Lord trotting through the streets of the Hollow Shades carrying a paralyzed pony did not actually garner much attention. There were a few lingering stares, to be sure, and one old stallion did stop them to (ostensibly) ask if they had the time, but other than that they received little notice. The watchpony had recovered enough at this point that she was able to move her eyelids and emit the occasional weak moan, and according to Sassaflash this, combined with the fact that the two of them were obviously not trying to hide what they were doing, was enough to allay the suspicions of most of the townsfolk. The Watch, it seemed, was more of a vigilante organization than anything official, and apparently it was a strange week when one of their number wasn’t being ported through the streets after an unfortunate encounter with something that they should have known better than to poke their muzzle into.

“And in any case,” said Sassaflash, as she turned down one of a number of (to the Mule) indistinguishable side streets, “If any of them were to recognize me, they would know not to interfere in a family matter.”

“Even when a pony’s carting her kin down the street like a sack o’ taters?”

“Especially in that case. No, not that way. Here. Now, we should be coming in sight of it right about…Ah.”

Emerging from a little sunken path that was more tunnel than it was alley, they came in sight of a broad plaza, unusually open for the Hollow Shades. Clustered around it were homes and towers of strange antiquity, half-sunken into the ground with little cramped ramps leading down to their doors. One of the homes, larger than the others, had been built around and within a gigantic dolmen of unguessable age. Huge blocks of stone rose up at each of its four corners, and its roof was the great flat tablestone capping the ancient megalith. Sassaflash trudged towards it without hesitation, her limp burden lolling on her back, and the Mule followed with enough hesitation for both of them.

As they descended down the beaten earth ramp leading to the house’s front door, the old creature noticed that the dirt making up the walls around them was not really dirt. Coarse plant fibers poked out here and there, while elsewhere there were bits of glass, shards of metal, layers of ash and charred wood, and other detritus. The refuse of ages, slowly and imperceptibly rising up around the buildings of the Hollow Shades. He directed one last glance skyward as they passed under the overhanging rim of the lichen-encrusted tablestone. Maybe someday the town, forever burying and building itself anew on the remnants of its dead past, would rise up to the level of the hills surrounding it, soaring high on foundations built of its own history. Maybe. Or maybe Sassaflash was right, and before that happened the walls of the gorge would crumble in, and wipe the town away. It was a race to see which would happen first, and both of the racers were straining against one another, plodding ahead at the breakneck pace of centimeters per century.

The Dark Lord raised her hoof, and gave the door a smart rap. A scurrying sound like tiny hooves pattering across wood came from within, and then the door lurched jerkily open, tugged by something unseen. Stepping inside, the cloaked pegasus peered around the door’s edge and said, “Thank you, Brown Jennet. Is my father home? His good daughter has been meddling in things she ought not to have meddled in.”

Something squeaked in surprise, and then in anger. Although he was not exactly sure what the difference between the two was, the Mule could certainly tell there was one. The Dark Lord frowned. “She is just unconscious. What do you take me for?”

Prolonged and emphatic squeaking. Sassaflash snorted irritably. “I will do no such thing. Now do your duty, familiar.”

There was one last indignant squeak, and then a large rodent, possibly a rat, scampered off from behind the door. There was something not quite right about its paws and head—something distinctly un-rat-like—but in the gloom, the Mule wasn’t able to make out what it was. In any case, he had no time to investigate further. Snapping a quick “No gawking, Mr. Mule. Touch nothing. Say nothing,” his employer beckoned for him to follow her.

Tapestries hung from the walls of the rooms they passed through, maybe blocking windows or maybe simply acting as decorations. Books ran along the walls and rose in neat, tidy stacks on the occasional table, surrounded by clusters of upholstered chairs draped with lace and standing on ornately carved wooden legs, and myriad candles glowed in brass settings on the walls. Sassaflash scowled and muttered something about fire hazards.

A muffled shout, vibrating with anger and astonishment, echoed down the halls from somewhere ahead, and the Dark Lord smiled humorlessly and lowered her sister to the floor. She looked back at her minion. “A word of warning, Mr. Mule. In a minute or so, there will be a great deal of shouting.” Her eyes narrowed at the distant sound of hooves cantering across thinly carpeted flagstones. “And I will be doing most of it.”

Her head swiveled forward again at the sound of a door slamming, and a moment later a tall, gaunt unicorn stormed into the room, his navy tail lashing at his sides. His nostrils flared at the sight of Sassaflash, and he bellowed, “What have you done to her? What have you done to your sister?”

The Dark Lord’s wings quivered at her sides. “Saved her life, you old fool. She—”

“How dare you talk to me in that way, unnatural child! How dare you! Even were you not an exile, even ha’…’ou…n’… …… ..” He stood there gaping like a fish out of water, his mouth flapping noiselessly as his eyes widened in shock.

“I had not finished, father,” said Sassaflash, her voice icy as she lowered her extended hoof. A faint wavering distortion was barely visible around it, like the shimmering of air above a lit candle. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that you will be lecturing me for my shortcomings. Zhro!”

The old stallion emitted a strangled squawk as his voice suddenly returned. His ears laid back, fearful and angry, he demanded, “Get out of this house! Get out of this town! You were banished!“

“I know,” said the Dark Lord, drily. “Starshade made the same observation, and attempted to bring me in—to face justice, I suppose. I objected. And do you know what she did then, father?” She raised an eyebrow. “She tried to use the Elder Sign against me.”

“And you deserved it, I can be proud of her, she hasn’t—“

“Did you not hear what I said!?” Sassaflash stepped forward, suddenly screaming at her father as her wings thrashed the air. “She used the Elder Sign! The Omen Antiquitatum! Cthulhu’s Eye! She was carrying it around in her head, and it’s still there!”

The stallion’s jaw dropped as what she was saying finally hit him. “No. No, that’s not poss—you’re lying. I don’t know why, but you’re lying.”

“Very well then.” She looked down at her sister, twitching fitfully on the carpeted floor as she slowly regained control of her body. “Starshade?”

“Nmm,” said Starshade. She blinked heavy eyelids, and tried again. “I d’n’t know—dn’t nn’erstand—they’re afraid ‘f it, they’re evil, it must be good—?“ Her eyes slid shut.

The Dark Lord returned her gaze to her father. “You see? She found it. She saw it! She thinks it’s some kind of shield! How did this happen? How did this happen!?”

“I don’t know, this should be—I was so careful!” The old unicorn was almost pleading. “I hid the worst books, I made sure she didn’t know the worst secrets—“

“And when she stumbled on them anyway, she didn’t know to be afraid of them, and this happened,” finished Sassaflash, spitting out each word. “The Old Ways cannot be divided so neatly up into ‘safe’ and ‘unsafe.’ To know part of them is to be exposed to the dangers of the full, and without full knowledge one is helpless. You have failed her, father, and you may have destroyed—“

“I don’t reckon that’s right, though, Miss Sassaflash,” said the Mule.

There was a moment of extremely tense silence. Sassaflash‘s father looked at the Mule, then to his daughter, then back at the Mule again. Sassaflash herself seemed to be trying very hard not to explode, and to her credit was enjoying remarkable success. Finally, after several very deep breaths, she turned slowly and deliberately to face the Mule and said, “What.”

The old half-blood shrugged. “Only you ain’t tole me and Miss Sweetie Belle much at all—and if they was things we needed to know, I reckon you’d 'a tole us.” He gave her a long, even stare. “Wouldn’t you, now.”

“I—you—“ Something seemed to have gone wrong with the Dark Lord’s vocal cords. “That is a completely different—“ She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. When she opened them again the fire was back, but burning with more measured fury. “Fine. Your point is valid, Mr. Mule, but we will discuss it later. It is not immediately relevant.” She whipped her attention back to her father. “What is relevant is this idiot’s reckless—his foolhardy—outrageous—“

She paused, glaring at the old pony cowering in front of her like a frightened yearling. With a disgusted wave of her hoof, she finished, “Oh, nevermind. You’re not worth it, you pathetic creature. You want me out of this town? Fine. I shall leave. But first—Mr. Mule, the worrywort, please. No, I put it in the other—thank you, yes.” The sheaf of worrywort rustled as Sassaflash hefted it on her hoof, gauging its weight. Bringing it up to her mouth, she bit down hard, shearing a quarter of the bundle off at the end, and then started chewing. Speaking around the bundle of soggy leaves, the pegasus said, “Good. Now, o’en ‘r mouf, Mshtr Mule. Shanksh.” She spat the masticated lump of plant matter out, and stuffed it into her sister’s mouth. “Close. Now—good, good. She swallowed it.”

“But what—what are you doing to her?” Her father stepped forward, worry creasing his face. The Dark Lord scowled.

“Saving her life. The Elder Sign should still only be in her short-term memory; if it had had time to be stored deeper, she would already have been attacked by one of Their slaves. As it is, Cthulhu’s Eye has only been open within her mind for a short while, and if she’s lucky the Dreaming God will lose interest if it closes again. And worrywort—an amnesiac, in sufficiently large doses—should serve very well to close it. If she’s lucky.”

She lowered her sister’s head to the floor. For a moment the teal pegasus stood there, looking down at the stricken unicorn mare with something very like pity on her face, and then she turned, her cloak rustling across the threadbare carpet covering the stone floor. “Come, Mr. Mule. Our business here is more than done, our welcome long since worn out—and we’re out of bits, so we can’t do any more shopping. It is time we departed for Hippoborea.”

Without a word of farewell to her family, the Dark Lord stepped off down the long, twisting hallway that led to the house’s sunken door. After a moment’s hesitation, the Mule followed her. Behind, he could hear Sassaflash and Starshade’s father whimpering to himself, muttering over and over, “Not that path, O Lord of the Wood, not that path! Iä, Shub-Niggurath! Iä! Please!”

The Mule shivered, and hurried on.

Chapter 6

The early morning Sun flashed off late-season patches of snow in blinding whites and blues. It had only set for a few scant hours that night, and when it did unseasonal stars could have been seen whirling above the northern horizon of the tundra, uniting the summer and winter night skies in a single shining, alien array. Now the long, cold day, twice as long as the night, had begun. Gleaming under the low-slung Sun, the tiny trail of color that was the Friendship Express crept across the broad gray-green Hippoborean waste, a determined speck of meaning adrift in a vast expanse of meaninglessness.

A muffled shaking rumbled through the train's beams and planks, and in her blanketed nest in an upper bunk of one of the sleeper cars, the Dark Lord Sassaflash hissed in irritation and angled a forelimb over the open pages of the book spread in front of her, corralling a number of flattened clay beads in the crook of her hoof. After waiting a moment for the train's motion to steady, the pegasus nudged the beads back to the center of the outspread page and began to paint again. Her brush danced across the clay, scribing out strange symbols and relating them to one another. The fourth sigil of the tree, encircling the Black Goat's roots, and bound with a descending node to the John Sun... She should have done this ages ago. Unlink the watchful crescent, and set it contingent upon the slantwise truth of the Understar proposition. Carrying the breaks around in her mouth was far too haphazard, and relied on foresight to an unacceptable degree. Test against Clover the Clever's eighth lemma. It had worked against her sister, of course, but that had never been a fair fight in the first place. Poor foal, venturing into realms she didn't understand--that she didn't even know that she didn't understand.

The pegasus' brow furrowed, and as she sent the brush tip twirling through a complex mesh of lines and loops with a few deft twitches of her teeth, she wondered whether Starshade had been seen through the Elder Sign before the worrywort had blotted it from her mind. Not that she could do anything now if she had, of course. But she did wonder.

And, perhaps, fear.

Another jolt shook through the train, and Sassaflash, caught unawares, let the brush slip, dragging a messy red line across the dried, brownish markings on the clay. She winced back with a sharp intake of breath, scrabbling after the edge of the blanket before throwing it over her head and clenching it around herself like a young filly hiding from a monster in her closet. For a moment nothing happened, and then, with a sharp retort, the bead buckled in on itself, its flat edges cracking inward and folding over into a quivering speck of grit. Dusky rays flared out from the shattered charm, raking the inside of the little sleeper car with bolts of burning darkness that set steam hissing up from the ice glazing the inside of the car's windows.

By degrees, the searing not-light faded. At length the Dark Lord risked a cautious peek out from under her blanket, and then threw it back off her head, scowling. Her nose wrinkling at the scent of scorched wool, she peered over the edge of her bed at the bunk where the Mule lay, still sleeping soundly. The upper bunk had shielded him from the blast, then. Good. She didn’t need her minion chafing with spellburn all the way across Hippoborea.

Still scowling, the turquoise pegasus extended her wing and brushed a new, unpainted bead out of a little satchel by her side. It had been foolish of her to allow herself to become distracted; carelessness was not a luxury she could afford now. Picking up the brush, she muttered a quick sterilization spell and dipped it into a small incision on her left fetlock, moistening the tip with blood before beginning to scribe a new set of symbols on to the blank disc of clay. Carelessness was not a luxury she could ever afford.

Far away, smoke and steam drifted up from the receding speck of the Friendship Express as it crawled away across the broad, rocky outwash plain--a sandur, sprawled lazily out beneath the far-off glacial moraines. Gazing after it with a contemplative expression on his long, bony face, the Mule muttered, “That’s that, then.” He turned to his employer, currently shading her eyes with her hoof as she peered off across the rubble-strewn wash at a distant darkish speck, situated in the very center of the great plain. “Miss Sassaflash? Shouldn’t we ought to get a move on?”

The pegasus looked back, a necklace of disc-shaped clay beads clinking around her neck. “Patience, Mr. Mule, is a virtue. But yes, we should begin. I would like to reach the ice sheet by nightfall. Follow me.” Pulling her hood over her head, the Dark Lord clambered off the train platform and started out over the sandur. With a shrug, the Mule ambled after her, the supplies and equipment tied to his back swaying gently to and fro.

Rock, stones, boulders, mountains, and far away a distant, blindingly bright mote of glacial ice, all spread out under a powder blue sky. It was an emptiness too big to be wholesome. There was nothing else to compare oneself with; no trees, no shrubs, not even any moss. Just rock, bare and bitterly cold. The Mule shivered. Hurrying forward to Sassaflash‘s side, he asked, “Ain’t there no growing things in this place?”

The Dark Lord gave a slow shake of her head. “Not that I am aware. I have never traveled in Hippoborea before, although I have of course read much of it. What we see now matches the descriptions. That said, there are old stories that tell of a time when it was green and alive, watched over and tended by an unusual race of ponies.” She came to a halt, gazing out over the expanse of rock and rubble. “If that was ever true, though, it has obviously been a long, long time since they lived here. I don’t know precisely what happened to them.”

“Ain’t there something other’n rock stones, though?” pressed the Mule. “Even some snow, for to cover the ground?”

A grim chuckle. “You would not wish to travel here at times when the snow is thick. Cold as it is now, the winter months are far, far colder. In any case, we will be seeing plenty of snow soon enough, once we reach the ice.” She paused. “But there is one landmark we should be coming to, soon enough. You see that object there, like a standing stone in the center of the plain? The going should be easier near it, and we will be passing quite close. In these times it is called the Somber Gate. There are amusing legends concerning it.”

Her minion squinted off into the distance. It didn’t look particularly amusing. Just bleak and lonesome and forbidding, like the rest of the place. “Amusing?”

“Yes. A mad unicorn despot, an ancient tragedy, the enslavement of a civilization...you know. Amusing.” She turned and trotted off across the pebbled shingle, and the Mule ambled after her, filled with a sudden longing for pink hearts, pastel colors, and small, adorable, comforting things.

They made good time, and after splashing across several meandering branches of a braided outflow current winding its way across the plain, they found themselves at the perimeter of a vast basin, filled with finer stones than much of the rest of the sandur and free of the hulking erratics that reared up at irregular intervals elsewhere, tall and black. In its very center was the archway that the Dark Lord had called the Somber Gate. As they drew nearer the Mule was able to make out more details of the thing. It was, quite simply, a door, arched and gothic, built of thick slabs of some deep black material bound together with iron bars. There was a solid, brutish appearance to it, and the shattered edges of the crystalline frame in which it was set hinted at its having once been part of some much grander structure, long since destroyed. Its solid black face and sharp, gleaming frame held none of the flourishes and decorations common in pony architecture, and it seemed filled with a belligerent defiance, as though daring the universe to try to tear it down.

All around it, wild and lonesome and utterly devoid of any sign of life, stretched the empty wastes of Hippoborea.

The Mule looked at Sassaflash, who was staring at the incongruous doorway with a pensive expression on her pinched face, and murmured, “But what’s it for?”

Without taking her eyes off the gate, the pegasus answered, simply, “I don’t know.”

A pause. “You don’t?”

“I don’t.”

The Mule digested this for a bit. At length, he ventured, “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Mr. Mule, I am quite certain. The history and purpose of the Somber Gate has been wrapped in legend and mystery for at least a thousand years, and possibly longer. On this subject, your guess is as good as mine.” She paused, considering. “Well, no, actually, not as good as mine. My guess is likely to be significantly better than yours. My point, though, is that it would still just be a guess. I would not do that if I were you,” she added, as the bony animal began to shuffle towards the door to get a closer look.

Rolling to a halt, he looked back at his employer. “Ain’t it safe?”

She shook her head. “Decidedly not. There is an ancient curse laid upon this place--not just the Gate, although it is strongest here, but upon this entire basin. Something happened here, long ago…” Looking up, Sassaflash gazed out over the sandur, her mane waving in the dry, cold wind, and drew her cloak more tightly about herself. “We should go.”

The Sun slid across the sky, low and cold and slow, and after many hours and many leagues of travel, the hoofsore wanderers finally found themselves in the shadow of a great glacial tongue, looming squat and immense over their heads. Their first attempt at staking out a campsite was foiled when a katabatic gale came screaming down off the ice sheet, ripping their tents off the ground and sending them billowing and flapping across the sandur, but after an exhausting trek back out across the plain to retrieve their wind-stolen supplies they managed to patch together an intact camp in the lee of a hulking boulder, sheltered from the intermittent winds.

The two travelers broke camp early that next morning, beginning what was to be an exhausting but--for the most part--uneventful day. They spent several difficult hours trying to find a way up on to the ice sheet, frustrated by unstable columns of half-melted glacial ice and crumbling walls lining the perimeter of the glacier, but after a particularly tricky traversal of the crumbling forefront of a moraine slope, they finally managed to attain the ice surface. The going was painfully slow; deep cracks riddled the ice, and the surface had folded and buckled under the immense stresses imposed by the glacier’s inexorable creep. As they ventured onward, climbing higher and higher away from the glacial terminus, the texture of the frozen mass beneath their hooves changed; the silt and stones that had been so common at lower elevations began to thin, and in places where it was exposed by fissures in the glacier’s surface or by puddled pools of meltwater, the ice took on a deep blue hue, rarefied and pure.

It was a little past midday when they encountered their first crevasse field. They had settled into a dull, mind-numbing routine of motion--left forehoof, right hindhoof, right forehoof, left hindhoof, left forehoof, right hindhoof--and neither the Mule nor the Dark Lord noticed the changes in the ice sheet’s surface at first. It was only when they had been blithely walking through the field for some ten minutes that the Mule stumbled to a halt, bags swaying on his back, and said, “Tread careful, Miss Sassaflash, and tread light. They ain’t no ice up under that ice.”

The pegasus, a few steps ahead, turned to look back at her minion with a peeved expression on her face. “What in Equestria are you talking about? Of course there’s…” She trailed off, noticing--too late--the long, linear depression in the snow’s surface into which she had wandered, and the telltale trace of deeper blue in the ice under her hooves. “Oh. Oh.” A pause. Then, in quite a different tone of voice, the pegasus said, “When you were working in the mountains, Mr. Mule, did you encounter glaciers like--that is, did ponies who wandered into--” She hesitated again. “As a matter of some personal interest, Mr. Mule, am I going to die?”

“Seeing as how you got wings, I reckon not. Why don’t you just fly on back over here?”

“Because,” snapped the Dark Lord, unfolding her wings and giving them a weak flap or two, “I can’t fly.”

The Mule’s eye’s widened. “Oh miss, I’m real sorry; I didn’t mean no offense. I didn’t know you was a cripple.”

“A cripple? I am not--do you have any idea how insulting that term--” She swished her tail in irritation. “Nevermind. Just--just tell me what I should do.”

"Now don't you fret none. Just step real careful-like, and come on back over here. Easy does it. You is gon' be just fine. Careful, don't step there." Bit by bit, under the Mule’s direction, Sassaflash inched her way back off the snowcapped crevasse, breathing in short, shallow gulps as if she were afraid that if she filled her lungs the extra weight would be too much for the thin crust of ice and snow. Finally, after what seemed like years, her hooves thudded against solid ice. The Dark Lord allowed herself to breathe again. Turning to her minion, she said, "Thank you, Mr. Mule. Now, fetch me a rope out of the bag. From now on we go tied together. I would prefer not to have to undergo that again."

"Yes, Miss Sassaflash." The Mule began rummaging through his pack. "Why didn't you tell me that you was a--that you was lame?"

"I am not lame," sniffed the Dark Lord. "Nor am I crippled, ptericapped, or whatever other term you may wish to choose. The condition is temporary and self-inflicted, not congenital. Yes, alright, I'll explain," she snapped, as the Mule opened his mouth to ask the first of what would no doubt have been a long line of questions. "I need magic to fly. All pegasi do; do you honestly suppose we could lift ourselves off the ground, unaided, with nothing but these pathetic things?" She gave her wings a demonstrative flap. "During the past several months I have been working extensively with various magic-draining charms and experiments, and that has taken its inevitable toll."

"You done did it to yourself, then?"

"Yes, that is what 'self-inflicted' means. Well done." She glared fiercely at him, and then her scowl slowly softened. Somewhat hesitantly, she muttered, "My apologies. You did just save my life. It's just, well...mortal peril makes me cranky. No offense, Mr. Mule?"

"None taken, Miss Sassaflash."

Dusk fell, and a cruel chill began to filter down from the reddening sky overhead as the Dark Lord and her minion huddled around a little spirit lamp, flickering fitfully outside their two tents. The Mule shuffled closer to the guttering lamp, clutching a wrap around his knobbly limbs, and looked through the wobbling, heated air at his employer, fidgeting on her side of the flame as she waited for her tea kettle to boil. He coughed once or twice. “Mighty cold, ain't it, miss?”

The Dark Lord gave him an appropriately frigid look. “I had observed that fact, thank you, Mr. Mule.”

“It always this cold?”

“No.” She raised an eyebrow. “It is often much colder.”

“You don’t say.” A pause. “Sure is cold, though. Real cold. Why, I reckon,” he continued, warming to his subject, “I ain’t never been no place so cold as this in all my born days. Even when I was working up atop them eyries o’ the griffons--on a mead hall o’ theirn, you know--they wasn’t a day there that weren’t warmer nor--”

Ice scraped as Sassaflash rose to her hooves. “Mr. Mule, what is this about?”

“Beg pardon?”

“The blather. The mindless yammering. If there is something on your mind, I would appreciate it if you would just spit it out.”

The old animal blinked once or twice, and then nodded. “Alrighty then. Only I been wondering: Why is we here? Why is we heading to this here Voormi's Address--”

“Voormithadreth.”

“Right, that. Why is we heading on up over there?”

The Dark Lord gave him a cool, even stare. “We are here to kill a God. Beyond that, I prefer to keep my schemes to myself, thank you. You know some of what my plans require, and you know my ultimate goal: global domination. The rest is mere detail, and not something that it is necessary you be familiar with. Kindly pass me a sheaf of worrywort,” she added, as the kettle atop the flame began to whistle.

“But that ain't what I meant,” protested the Mule, unhooking a small bundle of dried leaves from the pile of baggage by her side and tossing it across to the pegasus. “Why do you want for to take over the world in the first place? I don't see as how the Princesses is doing that bad a job o' taking care o' things. Leastwise, I been happy enough, living here in Equestria.”

At first Sassaflash made no response, watching as the dried worrywort leaves softened and sank in her cup. Then she raised her head and asked, “Have you, though?”

“I reckon.”

“Mm.” A strange softness crept into the turquoise pegasus’ voice. “Do you miss your wife, Mr. Mule?”

Her minion looked up, eyes wide. “What kind o’ question is that!?”

The Dark Lord waved her hoof. “Calm yourself. I meant no offense. You are not the only one who has lost somepony dear to them. I know that pain.” She paused for a moment, swirling the leaves to and fro in her tea. Then her eyes flashed, and she spat, “And it is pain. It hurts, and no matter how much time passes it just goes on hurting, and hurting, and hurting. And they could stop it, if they only dared to!”

“They?” The Mule cocked his head, long ears flopping to one side.

“Celestia. Luna.” She hissed the names as though they were obscenities. “The ‘Princesses,’ as they call themselves. ‘Princesses?’ Hah! They once titled themselves queens, did you know? And before that it was Sol Invicta and Luna Imperatrix, and before that, before Luna’s...’birth,’ I suppose it must be called, there was only the Ouranocaust, the Sky-Scorcher. Princesses, indeed! They hide behind that title. They are Gods, with all the power that that entails--but too cowardly to use the strength that is their birthright. Too cowardly to undo mischance, to rewrite reality in a kinder mold, to raise the dead…” Sassaflash frowned, her ears flattened back against her head. “I intend to remind them of their responsibilities--to show them how that strength should be used.”

Her companion made no answer to this at first, mulling over the Dark Lord's words with his head bowed. Eventually he looked up, the light of the spirit lamp dancing in his eyes. "That's as may be, Miss Sassaflash, that's as may be. But the Princesses--even if they's as strong as you says, they ain't bad ponies. Equestria could be a whole lot worser'n it is, you know. When bad things happen, it's 'cause they ain't done something good, not 'cause they done something bad. Don't you reckon maybe they got reasons for holding back?"

Sassaflash glared. "'Celestia works in mysterious ways,' is that it? You may cling to that, if you like, but I have no patience for excuses and suppositions. The world is broken, they could fix it--and they don't. That is all that matters."

The Mule’s brow wrinkled. “Begging your pardon, I’m sure, but...well, what can you do about that? You ain’t got no powers like they does."

“Powers?” An indignant sniff. “Bite your tongue! My powers are considerable. I, the Dark Lord Sassaflash, am the greatest necromancer the world has ever known!” She paused, considering. “The greatest it has known recently, at least. The greatest living necromancer. Most likely.” The Dark Lord shook her head, as though to shoo away an irritating fly. “The point is, I am far from powerless.”

“You ain’t no alicorn, though,” her minion pointed out. He almost added a reflexive “begging your pardon” to the statement, but decided, on consideration, that he really didn’t need to beg the Dark Lord’s pardon for observing that she was not, in fact, divine.

Sassaflash merely smiled. “Not yet, Mr. Mule.” She hooked her hoof into the little tin cup’s handle and took a long, slow draught of her worrywort tea, watching as whorls of steam swept up into the frigid evening air. “Not yet.”

Chapter 7

Voormithadreth. The mountain had first become visible above the ice plateau shortly after noon on their third day of travel, and now, days later, it seemed to hang there, a black point pressed into the white horizon. Distant and small as it was, it still possessed a strangely compelling quality, drawing the eye to it from across the empty sky and the featureless ice. Everything converged on the mountain.

“Don’t look at it, Mr. Mule,” warned the Dark Lord Sassaflash, emerging from her tent and squinting in the dazzling morning light. The Mule had woken some time earlier, and had already packed his tent into a neat roll. He blinked, looked down at the pots and pans he was currently scrubbing out with snow as if he had only just noticed them, and then turned to the pegasus.

“I been trying not to, Miss Sassaflash. Only it’s looking at me, sort o’ like.” His gaze wandered back up to the horizon, and his eyes began to glaze over before he realized what he was doing and jerked his head away, shaking it to clear his mind. “And seeing as how we’re walking straight for it, it ain’t that easy not to look.” The old creature shot another furtive glance at the mountain, then pulled his attention back to the cooking utensils in front of him.

“Nonetheless, try not to give it your attention.” The mare raised her head, staring off a little to the right of the dark point in the distance with her eyes unfocused. “Your observation is a perceptive one. It is looking at us--or rather, the being that dwells beneath it is. Tsathoggua is a slothful and indifferent Thing, but It is still one of the Great Old Ones, and It is watchful.” She turned, and began to disassemble her tent. “Fortunately for us, being seen is not the same thing as being noticed. We may not have drawn Its attention. Let us hope not, at any rate.” The Dark Lord lapsed into silence, brow wrinkled as she pulled a strap tight around her sleeping bag and hooked it on to her pack, and when she spoke next it was just to ask the Mule to pass her a pair of snow goggles. Not long afterwards they had finished packing up the campsite, and after a few last checks to make sure that nothing had been forgotten--and, although neither of the two would have admitted it to the other, to put off the long, arduous trek over the ice for as long as possible--they set out across the glacier.

Time passed. Pale blue shadows twisted underhoof as the Sun rose higher in the sky. Wind whistled. Fragments of ice, fine as dust and sharp as glass, danced and whirled across the ice sheet, rising up in the air in great phantom clouds before subsiding again into eddying wavelets rippling across a dry ocean.

Emptiness.

The Mule raised a weary hoof, sank it in the mesh of ice and snow that made up the glacier’s surface, and pulled one of his hindhooves free. Step by step by step he plodded on, trying to ignore the dull, heavy ache that had settled into his back and bones. It had been years since he had last made a voyage like this, and it felt like every one of those years was pressing down on him now, burning in his legs and cutting at his lungs. He was a mule, and he was strong--but he was also, he had to admit, not nearly as young as he used to be.

The swaying burden on his back began to slide, and the Mule hunched his shoulders, trying to nudge it back into place. Just keep going. He’d get to where he was after eventually, no doubt about that. He always did.

Just keep going.

Just keep going. The thought swelled in his mind, bloating and crowding out everything else in a rushing sweep of blackness. There seemed to be subtleties and complexities to it that needed to be unraveled, if he could only concentrate on them--but as soon as he tried to focus on one, it vanished like a will-o’-the-wisp, leaving him grasping at mist. It was somehow very important that he catch that thought, or pattern of thoughts, in the blackness and confusion…

...And suddenly he was falling, his legs buckling under the weight of the heap of tents, cookware, hay bricks, books, and other paraphernalia pressing down on his shoulders. He pushed forward with his forelegs, slipped again, and then slumped down, black spots wheeling through his vision, into the cold, hard firn of the glacier. He tried to draw his hooves back underneath his body, but for some reason he seemed to be having trouble moving them. It’d be fine. Just keep going.

There was a sudden, gentle pressure under his forelimbs, and the exhausted animal felt himself being raised up out of the snow. Turning his aching head, he saw Sassaflash at his side, her shoulder pressed against his own as she strained to lift him upright. He struggled to his hooves. When she was certain that his quivering legs would be able to support him, the mare raised her head, bit down on a knot in one of the ropes dangling off the Mule’s pack, and gave it a sharp tug. The Mule felt his load lighten as several stacks of books slid off his back, sinking into the snow with a muted whud. Another tug, and several more packs tumbled off. The Dark Lord stepped back, snow crunching under her hooves, and looked at her minion. “Better?”

The Mule wavered, but remained upright. “I--I reckon so. But miss, can you carry all them things? Your own pack’s already mighty heavy.”

The pegasus squinted back at the fallen supplies through her snow goggles, her ears flattened back against her head. “No. No, I cannot. But you, quite clearly, cannot carry them either.” She sighed. “They will have to be left behind. Possibly we may be able to retrieve them on our return voyage.”

“But your books! Ain’t some o’ them--”

“Originals, yes. One or two are irreplaceable. Kindly do not rub it in.” She undid the straps of her own pack. “I was inattentive, and you need to recover. We will stop here for twenty minutes--longer, if necessary. Get some rest, drink some water, and eat some pemmican. I have sorting to do.”

The Mule, too tired to argue, tilted his head. “Sorting?”

“Yes. The wheat from the chaff. Or rather,” continued the Dark Lord, trudging over to the pile of supplies half-sunken into the snow, “the wheat from the moderately less essential wheat. I do not pack chaff. Amuse yourself as you will.”

“I might could make some tea,” volunteered the old creature. A dubious look flickered across Sassaflash‘s face, as if she suspected that tea-brewing was too strenuous an activity to be risked, but she nodded.

“That, Mr. Mule, would be acceptable.”

The tea kettle and spirit lamp were, fortunately, not buried too deep in the pile of cloth rolls, satchels, and bundles that the Mule had been carting around, and before long steam was twisting upwards, glinting in a rainbow of colors as it froze in the frigid Hippoborean air. Sassaflash had spread out a blanket on the snow, and was ensconced in the middle of it, surrounded by books, herbs, instruments, and other items. One by one she took them up in her hooves, gazed at them, and one by one she laid them aside in one of two piles. Nearby, the Mule, still a little dizzy but recovering thanks to the rest and food, busied himself about the tea.

After several minutes of silence, Sassaflash, who had just regretfully consigned an ancient, fire-damaged orihon to the discard pile, looked up and asked, “How are you feeling, Mr. Mule?”

“I been better, but then I been worse.” Shrugging bony shoulders, her minion scooped a tin cup on to his hoof, and prepared to pour out some tea. “‘Tweren’t nothing but a little fainting spell. I allow as how I could start now, if’n you’re done sorting them things.”

“Imprudent,” snapped the Dark Lord. “We leave when I am certain you are up to it, not before. I cannot have you collapsing en route to Voormith--to the mountain, let alone once we arrive.”

“But miss,” protested the Mule, “I just pushed myself a mite too hard, is all.” He extended a hoof, holding the steaming cup out for Sassaflash. The pegasus crooked her hoof through the loop of the handle, frowning.

“That would not have happened had I been paying proper attention.” A sharp, sour note crept into her voice. “It should not have happened. You are my minion, and I cannot allow you to be damaged. I was remiss.”

Tilting his head to one side, the shabby beast considering this for some moments. He shrugged. “That’s real decent of you, Miss Sassaflash, but I ain’t sure that most ponies’d say you was to blame.”

“‘Most ponies.’ Hm!” The Dark Lord took an angry gulp of scalding tea. The ensuing coughing fit effectively stifled all further conversation, and by the time Sassaflash‘s esophagus and trachea had finally worked out their differences and determined who was going to perform what physiological function, the subject of the responsibility for the Mule’s collapse had drifted to the wayside. They set out again shortly afterwards, the Mule’s burden lighter than it had been and Sassaflash‘s, in some ways, heavier. Her employee noticed her casting one or two wistful glances back at the pile of precious books and other belongings sitting there on the glacier, sheltered under a spare tarpaulin in case they might be retrieved on the return trip. He decided that it would be best to say nothing.

Step by step, yard by yard, and league by league they traveled, and step by step, yard by yard, and league by league Voormithadreth drew closer. As they approached the grim, slumping mountain, its flanks trailing long streamers of steam belched out from deep rifts in its rocky surface, other peaks began to emerge from the horizon around it, cutting into the sky like tiny black teeth erupting from blanched gums. They clustered around the central four peaks of Voormithadreth, a court of giants in attendance on their colossal king. “The Eiglophian range,” said Sassaflash, and the Mule nodded as though the word was not completely new to him.

The two travelers made camp that evening in the lee of a craggy nunatak rearing up out of the glacial ice, its surface draped with snow and encrusted with lichens and weird pad-like growths. By mutual and silent agreement, they pitched their tents on the southern side of the outcropping, setting it between themselves and the distant mountain. There was still a faint, prickling sense of uneasy watchfulness to the place, but it felt somehow more diffuse and less focused than it had when they were trekking across the ice plain. Overhead, livid green aurorae swayed and broke upon one another, falling down out of the sky in cascading cliffs and waterfalls of light.

The glow of the spirit lamp flickered off the ice, painting the crystals with liquid flashes of yellow and orange and casting long shafts of light and shadow out across the glacier. The Mule sat by the little fire, trying to slog his way through a dense and impenetrable monograph on the legends of Hippoborea that the Dark Lord had decided, after much hesitation, was safe enough for him to read. Sassaflash herself was sitting a little further away from the lamp on an unfolded blanket, her neck craned up in a sphinx-like pose as she muttered to herself with her eyes closed.

At length the Mule, tired of trying to make sense of an old parable concerning Voormithadreth and seven geases (quite apart from anything else, he hadn’t the faintest clue what a geas was. A type of herb, he suspected. Or possibly some sort of waterfowl), closed his book with a firm whump and set it to one side. His employer’s ear twitched, and she half-opened one eye. At first the old creature thought she was just going to give him a squinty-eyed death glare and go back to whatever it was she was doing, but after a moment the pegasus’ shoulders slumped and she lapsed into silence, staring with forehooves crossed into the fidgeting flame.

For a time, all was still. The Dark Lord and the Mule did not speak, or read, or eat, or do anything else; they simply existed, small shining points of life in a vast plain of dark, star-studded emptiness. Wind swept across the wastes, cold and dry as death, while the aurora contorted and convulsed in majestic slowness overhead, twisting across the skies in its mad, senseless dance. Sassaflash raised her head, and, staring up at the stars, murmured, “How do you bear it, Mr. Mule?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Loss. Pain. How do common ponies endure them?”

“Same as you, I reckon; they just does.” The Mule shrugged. “When Missus Mule died, I was fair heartbroke, until I--that’s to say, I found her--” He paused, uncertain how to proceed. Then, weighing his words carefully, he finished, “I dreams about her of a night, and that helps. It’s kindly like she’s back with me. Almost, o’ course.”

“But then you wake up.”

“But then,” agreed the Mule, “I wakes up.”

“Mm.” The pegasus mare looked back at the flame of the spirit lamp, writhing and guttering in the cold Hippoborean wind. “Dreams! Do you know, Mr. Mule, the purpose of the incantation I was reciting earlier? It was a dream-spell--or so Abd Al-Hisan claims, at least.” She gestured to an ancient, yellowed book lying open beside her, bound in a dark, pliant material of uncertain nature. “I have had little success replicating his results, and he himself states that the rite is useful primarily as a means of achieving the proper mental focus. It will not lead the dreamer to the Seventy Steps, or to the Two Gatekeepers.”

“Seventy steps,” murmured the Mule. In a louder tone, he asked, “And what might be at the bottom o’ them steps, Miss Sassaflash?”

Raising her gaze to meet his, the Dark Lord gave a peculiar smile. “The Dreamlands. An entire world unto itself, built of the shared dreams of tens of thousands of years’ worth of Dreamers, and accessible only to a scant few. In that realm strange things may happen, and stranger knowledge may be earned, to be carried back by the Dreamer to the waking world. I hope to enter it, although thus far,” she gave the ice in front of her a frustrated little kick with her forehoof, “I have met with little success.”

“Is that so.” The Mule looked at Sassaflash expectantly, as though waiting for her to realize something or make some connection. Whatever he was looking for, though, he did not seem to see, for after some seconds he gave an enormous yawn, and rose to his hooves. “Well, speaking o’ dreams, I’d best get me some sleep. Goodnight, Miss Sassaflash.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Mule.”

Slow days passed, and Voormithadreth drew ever nearer. With time, more details of the mountain and its surrounding retinue of smaller summits became visible. Four jagged peaks, snowless and black, stabbed skyward from the mountain’s crest, while below them rocky flanks dropped in long, jagged fits and starts, their slopes interrupted by sudden cliffs hundreds of yards tall or abrupt flattenings into sharp-edged obsidian plains. Here and there the rock was riven with great jagged fissures, venting clouds of billowing steam, and around these the mountainside was tinted a dusty green by stunted and misshapen half-trees. The Mule, squinting out over the dazzlingly white glacier, couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though rather than sloping gently up Voormithadreth’s slopes, the glacier just stopped at its edge, with the mountain rising up from the midst of a perfectly flat plain of ice. It was as if it had abruptly come into being one day, an alien presence that had been rudely thrust into reality.

Finally, the morning dawned when the Dark Lord, eyeing the mountain askance, declared that they would be there within a day. Turning to the Mule, who was currently packing up the remnants of their campsite, she said, “We should be able to strike camp at the mountain’s base this evening, and tomorrow we will scale the peak. If we are fortunate, we ought be able to find a suitable point of entry--the steam vents should aid us in that respect--and there we will make a secondary, smaller camp. From there I shall venture into the heart of the mountain, where I plan to--”

“Hold on just a dadblamed second,” interrupted the Mule. Sassaflash gave him a Look. Her minion, unfazed, continued, “Begging your pardon, I’m sure, but did you say you was going to go on down inside that mountain? And it being a volcano and all?”

“A volcano?” The pegasus raised an eyebrow. “When did I ever say that the greatest of the Eiglophians is a volcano? It was one once, yes, but it is long since extinct. Its fires have been dead for eons.”

The Mule’s brow wrinkled. “You sure about that? It don’t look dead to me, what with all them steams and cloud smokes.”

“Oh, the steam.” Sassaflash gave a dismissive flutter of her wings. “That is not volcanic in origin. It is warm only, not superheated, and should be quite safe to enter. Well, not safe,” she amended. “Nothing on that mountain is safe. But the steam is not dangerous in and of itself.”

“But...where’s it all coming from, if that ain’t a volcano no more?”

The Dark Lord considered his question for several seconds in silence. Rising to her hooves, she trotted around the campsite so that she was standing between the Mule and Voormithadreth. With a quick swipe of her hoof she doffed her hood, threw back her head, drew a deep breath--and exhaled.

A cloud of steam swirled out of her throat, rising and twisting through the bone-dry air.

For a few moments the Mule simply stared blankly at her, uncomprehending. Then his eyes widened. “You--you don’t mean--them smokes is all from…?”

“It is not called a Great Old One for nothing, Mr. Mule. The Sleeper of N’kai is a vast and ponderous Thing, and strange fires burn in Its belly. The labyrinths riddling that rotten-cored mountain are thick and humid with Its heat.”

Her minion digested this. Then, with firm decision, he said, “I don’t reckon I want to go in there.”

The Dark Lord rolled her eyes. “How fortunate for you, then, that you will not be required to. You will remain at the secondary camp outside whatever suitable entrance point we find, and I will descend into the mountain’s heart myself, there to find the Beast and lay my trap. If successful and uneaten, I will then return to the surface, and we will prepare for our return to Equestria--and my conquest of the Sun and Moon. Yes, Mr. Mule, what is it?”

Lowering his hoof, the Mule said, “I don’t reckon I want you to go in there, neither.”

Her voice a dead monotone, Sassaflash responded, “Your concern is touching. Nonetheless, my task requires that I venture into that mountain and face down the Thing within. You will simply have to bear up under the uncertainty as best you can. Now come, Mr. Mule. Enough blather. We have a long day’s hike ahead of us, and momentous events for which to prepare.”

They made good progress that day--almost too good for the Mule’s liking. Every step towards Voormithadreth was a relief, and every step back a strain. To his alarm, the old creature soon realized that it wasn’t that moving towards the mountain was physically easier; it was a mental drive that pulled them onward, insistent and irresistible as the need to draw breath. They were being drawn in like moths to a flame, tumbling down towards the sharp-edged basalt peaks.

As evening drew on, they began to encounter rougher patches of ice, scarred with dirty striations of rock and rubble or shattered by broad, snow-veiled crevasse fields. The apparent flat plain of ice around Voormithadreth was, it was now evident, not a plain but a bowl, with the ice of the surrounding sheet terminating in many wilting glaciers that pushed great moraines out into the lowlands surrounding the bare, lifeless flanks of the mountain itself. The ice, for whatever reason, could not survive too close to those rough black slopes. Their descent down the crumbling slopes of ice to the outwash plain was difficult and exhausting, but (aside from a few near-misses and slips) uneventful, and before long they were standing on the dry gravel of the lowlands, hooves planted on solid, snowless ground for the first time in nearly two weeks. Despite the Mule’s mild protestations, Sassaflash insisted that they continue their trek until they were on the slopes of Voormithadreth itself.

“We are too exposed in this place, Mr. Mule; too easily seen. I would prefer for us to be in rougher terrain before we make camp.”

Her minion gave a resigned shrug and plodded after her, his hooves clacking on the flaking stones underhoof. “They’s beastes and suchlike hereabouts, then?”

Turning her head to look back at him, the Dark Lord gave an irritated twitch of her tail. “I really couldn’t say. There are any number of beasts that might live here; wendigos, the Sleeper’s shapeless offspring, perhaps a remnant population of Voormis...it would be better not to take any risks. So come. We have a ways to go yet.”

“Alrighty, Miss Sassaflash.”

It took nearly an hour of searching before they were able to find a campsite that met Sassaflash‘s exacting standards, but at last she declared herself satisfied with a sort of hollow space between three hulking boulders, half-sunken in the scree of the mountain’s low slope. There they pitched their tents, and after a brief dinner and the Dark Lord’s habitual cup of tea, they retired. The Mule remembered none of his dreams that night, but he woke up twice with tears in his eyes and a knot of fear in his throat. At around three hours before sunrise he heard a faint, ululating cry coming from outside his tent, and was afraid at first that they had been found by some monster of the ridges and slopes--but a moment later he realized that the sound was just Sassaflash, whimpering in her sleep. He pulled his sleeping bag tighter, and tried not to hear.

Too soon, the Sun rose, and too soon the two travelers found themselves scrabbling up the slopes of Mount Voormithadreth, weaving their way up unstable slopes of fallen debris and inching along narrow ledges and through cracked trenches in the living rock. Their progress seemed impossibly slow, and yet, little by little, the outwash plain and glaciers behind began to fall away, sinking lower and lower beneath them. All the while the Dark Lord kept her eye fixed on a distant fumarole, pumping steam out from the mountain’s heart into the frigid air. They wound their way higher, skirting a cliff here or gingerly clearing a path of fallen rubble there, and finally, after nearly ten hours of hard climbing, they reached a point where, rather than sloping outward, the loose rocks sloped inward, falling down towards a dark pit beneath. Clouds of steam drifted out of the hole, carrying with them a horrible, sickly-sweet odor, acrid and organic.

Deep beneath, Tsathoggua was waiting.

Author's Note

Greetings, all! I've a few things to say about this chapter, and perhaps one or two apologies to make, as well. For those of you who've read Mendacity, you may recall a certain interminable chapter taking place in the swamp below the Canterhorn during which...well, not much of anything happened. Oh, there were some distinctly plot-relevant revelations, but those aside, the chapter consisted mostly of Aldrovanda and Bon Bon wandering across a swamp. I recall there being some comments on that fact at the time.

Well. Let it not be said that I am capable of learning my lesson! This chapter is not dissimilar to that one, except it is, if possible, even more uneventful. All I can do is ask for your patience, and reassure you that there is a certain method to my madness. Don't worry, we won't be spending the next five chapters underground; there, at least, I've learned the error of my ways.

Oh! That's right, one other very minor note. In this chapter, Sassaflash recommends that the Mule eat some pemmican. In our world, pemmican is a foodstuff produced using, among other ingredients, animal fat, which is obviously not something that ponies would be inclined to chow down on. The pemmican that Sassaflash is referring to is made with a blend of oats, hay, and a thick vegetable oil--likely palm oil, imported from the Fillyppines. Think of a vegetarian version of suet cakes, like those used in birdfeeders, and you won't be too far off.

(Edit:) Ah, yes; one more important detail. For both Mendacity and Rise and Fall, my general rule regarding the rating was that I could label it E for Everyone as long as nothing more extreme than the contents of Majora's Mask (an E-rated game) showed up in-story. Given that Majora's Mask involves multiple murders, a torture scene, hints of infidelity, mindwiping, insanity, a child forced to watch her father slowly succumb to a fate worse than death, and the END OF THE WORLD, I thought that that would give me all the leeway I needed. On reflection, though, there are two upcoming scenes/incidents in this story that, if shown in Majora's Mask, would probably have earned it a T rating. Now, that said, I'd like to assuage any worries that y'all may have. The tone of this story will not be changing in any way, and the events I mentioned will not be particularly out of tone with everything that's come before. They will, however, be just a teense graphic, and so, regretfully, I've decided to up the rating to Teen. Hopefully, this won't drive anyone away, but if it does...well, as someone inclined to be a bit squeamish of violence in games and stories myself, I certainly can't blame you, and can only apologize for delaying this long before figuring out what exactly my story should be rated.

Chapter 8

A tiny figure stood, angular and sharp in the clear, cold air, on the brink of an abyss. He stood, alone and indecisive, and steam eddied around his fetlocks, plastering his fur against his body with a clammy, stinking dampness. He stood, one of only two mortal souls for hundreds of leagues around, and he wondered and feared and doubted.

Another foul gust of fumes billowed up from the gaping pit below, and the Mule cringed back, stomach churning. Somewhere below, working her way down into the bowels of the mountain, was the madmare who had dragged him here. The Dark Lord Sassaflash! Lord of nothing, neurotic, brilliant, megalomaniacal, and mysterious.

Broken.

Not too long before, she had stood where the Mule was standing now, her hooves dusty with ancient ash. Strapped to her back was a small, rounded bundle, and hanging at her sides were several coiled lengths of rope, a carbide lamp with a mouth-grip, a knife, and various other pieces of caving equipment. For some moments she had been staring into the pit, ears pressed back against her head. At length she raised a hesitant hoof, extended it--and then withdrew it again. Turning, she had looked back at the Mule, her face a shade more pinched and strained than usual, and said, “So it ends, and so it begins, Mr. Mule. Or perhaps it will only--No. I am the Dark Lord Sassaflash! Before me the weak tremble, and the mighty...” She hesitated. “...also...tremble. Yes.” The Dark Lord cast a quick, nervous glance over to the yawning chasm. “I am the Dark Lord Sassaflash. I deal in strange powers, and in mysteries. I have power over them. Over the strange powers. I am the Dark Lord Sassaflash!" There was a moment of silence. Then she had sighed, her shoulders sagging and ears drooping. She suddenly looked very, very frail. “But It is a God.”

She had closed her eyes, then, and inhaled a deep draught of the cloyingly venomous gases wafting up from below. She shuddered, but forced herself to draw another long, slow breath, tasting--almost savoring, it had seemed to the Mule--the death-laden mists. Some of the tension left her face, fading away into a tired resignation, and when she had opened her eyes again, their customary fire was only barely visible. She looked away from the Mule, back down into the darkness, and murmured, “My odds, Mr. Mule, are poor. I must know that. You must know it, as well. Wait for me here a day, and no longer. If I do not return by this time tomorrow, in all probability I will not be returning, and you should head south, back to civilization. Do not tell my acolyte what happened to me; fashion some soothing falsehood or other.” She gave a grim chuckle. “Perhaps you could claim I left the waking world, and entered the Dreamlands. Some of the greatest dreamers have been rumored to do so; why not me?”

The Dark Lord stepped forward, and began to inch her way down the steep incline of jagged, ash-covered ʻaʻā into the darkness. The Mule watched her descent in silence. Just before she passed from view into the caverns beneath, Sassaflash had looked up, her face pallid and colorless in the shadows, and called, “One last thing, Mr. Mule. We have had our differences, I know, and I do not pretend that I might not have preferred you to be less assertive and more subservient. You were not, I confess, quite what I expected. But taken as a whole, you have been a commendable minion, and I--well. It has been...worthwhile knowing you.” A pause. “Thank you.” Then she had turned, and vanished into the deeps.

That had been an hour ago. A chill wind whimpered and moaned over the stones of Voormithadreth, scattering whorls of ice dust through the air, and the Mule heaved a heavy sigh. “She shouldn’t ought to have went,” he muttered to nopony in particular, and drew his thick woolen wrap more snugly around himself. “She just shouldn’t.”

You will simply die. There is no other way it can end. That was what Odsin Ends had said, back in that mystical little shop in the Hollow Shades. The Mule began to suspect that the shopkeeper’s prophecy would end up being a true one, and the Dark Lord would perish here in the frozen north, all her plans crumbling into dust and death. Her rise to power--however she planned for it to happen--would never occur. Celestia and Luna’s eternal reign would never be challenged. The will of this angry, hurt pegasus would never be wrought on the world. For an instant, before he caught himself, the Mule thought, and I reckon it’d be better that way.

Well. Maybe it would. But if the cost of that reprieve was Sassaflash‘s life, he found that he didn’t really fancy seeing it paid. The Mule stood in silence for a moment longer, brooding as he stared down into the mist-shrouded pit before him, and then he gave an irritated snort and hoisted himself up. After a moment’s rummaging through the small pack of supplies he had carted up the mountain from their base camp, he retrieved a spare carbide lamp and another length of rope--packed on the general principle that it was always a good idea to have at least one or two spares, even if Sassaflash herself had rejected them due to a fear that the extra weight would slow her down--and slung the pack on to his back, muttering “I ain’t gon’ have no blood on my hooves. Not hern, not nopony’s.” Small rocks and pebbles tumbled off and away into the darkness as the old creature began to inch his way down the steep incline, into the heart of Voormithadreth.

A flame burned in the dark. Distant columns and crags of stone wavered in and out of existence in its shining beam, their surfaces glistening with pallid, damp light, while nearer at hoof long black shadows flung themselves out from the backs of boulders and rubble to join the deeper darkness of the caverns beyond. There might also have been shapes in the distance, like coils, claws, or something else entirely. It was difficult to tell.

Through that darkness, brandishing a beam of light, crept a very small creature. Her hooves slipped and slid on the damp rocks, her mane hung limp and bedraggled from her head, and as she struggled through the hot, heavy air she swallowed each new breath with a choking gulp. Between the occasional open galleries and halls the way was often cramped and difficult, forcing the mare to crawl through twisting passages and squirm down fissures, and yet she felt curiously free of any sense of claustrophobia. If anything, the reverse was true; even in the tightest crevices, where the rough, scraping stone pressed against her skin and pinned her limbs to her sides, there was a strange sense of exposure. The rock surrounding her seemed fragile and impermanent, and Sassaflash almost expected it all to just dissolve away, like a salt crystal dropped into a cauldron of boiling water. There was something older and more solid than rock in this place, more inflexible, more unchanging. It seeped through the stones and hung, languid and venomous, in the heavy air. As the mare ventured deeper still, it began to drift through her mind, brushing her half-formed thoughts aside like so many twigs. She walked in scattered dreamscapes, and time slipped back and forth in her mind.

Strangely regular systems of cracks broke the smoothness of the cave’s walls and floors, arcing out across the slick, fragmented surface in sprawling, branching configurations that seemed to have no definite source, and no definite end--but why was she just noticing it now? They had been there for...hours? Had she been here for hours? Surely not. She would have noticed, wouldn’t she? If only she could think...

But she couldn’t think, couldn’t think for the fear screaming in her mind, howling and flapping in blind terror. Fear! Why was she afraid? She had just been wandering through the darkness, it had been still and quiet, and now suddenly she was running and her pursuers could see her, they could see the Eye in her mind, there is no such thing as a shoggoth! There should not be such a thing as a shoggoth!

Of course there was no such thing as a shoggoth. The Mad Arabian had been quite clear on that point. She shook her head, trying to break free of the last clinging tendrils of the waking nightmare that had just assaulted her mind, and plodded deeper into the cave, slow and weary and dazed. Her legs hurt. Why did they hurt so much? She would keep going, she had to keep going, she had a purpose, but why did it have to hurt so much? She would rest a bit, perhaps, rest in the darkness, and--but what was that sound?

Nothing that large should breathe.

But there was nothing else here, nothing except herself. The Dark Lord cantered to a halt, her breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She was--they were hallucinations, they must be. The air was bad here, perhaps, poisoning her mind and warping her grasp of reality. The bewildered mare forced herself to sit still, staring hard at the solid, real stone in front of her and trying to resist the clinging strands of madness tugging at her mind.

As she stared, her thoughts a muddled whirlwind, she began to glimpse something almost like a pattern in the cracks lacing the cavern’s stone walls. There was some consistency or regularity that bore a strange and unnerving familiarity. She could almost see a recurring symbol hidden within, like the veins on an oak leaf or the branching of a twig. If only she could remember what it was, and why it seemed so...watchful.

Grah’n vhdaht ooboshu Ya...

Sassaflash scrambled to her hooves, her chest heaving and eyes dilated. Those rumbling words, whose dying echoes were, it seemed, even now shuddering their way through her bones, hadn’t actually been spoken. The memory of them had sprung into existence in her mind, separated from the words themselves by a gap of time in which they had never been uttered. Had her memories been altered, somehow? Had the past been altered? Perhaps, she thought, she was going mad. She should turn back, maybe. Maybe it would be wise to seek someplace less dark and unwholesome, where the stones were not marked with those curiously angled patterns...

Grah’n vhdaht ooboshu Ya.

Unspoken words thundered in her memory, shattering her thoughts. The pegasus half-slumped to one side, the beam of her carbide lamp swinging wildly as she slid. At the last moment she caught herself and tottered upright again, forcing her shaking legs to stand firm. She couldn’t go back. She had come here for--for a purpose. What that purpose was, she couldn’t quite remember at the moment, but it had been important, she was sure of that. She was Sassaflash, after all; the Dark Lord Sassaflash. Any purpose she had had must have been an important one.

Tsathoggua fhtagn, ssgagt’khoth nafl’ah zhog syha’h.

The mare swallowed painfully. Lungs filled with poison and mind reeling towards madness, she stepped forward into the dark.

Down, down, ever downwards coiled the shafts and blocks of stone. The walls of the caverns through which the Dark Lord stumbled began to curve as she delved deeper, twisted and shattered into unnaturally arcing columns and spirals like seawater churned in a maelstrom. Here and there the rock glistened with glassy smoothness, the solid stone shaped into drips or sagging, rippled lumps like melting jelly, and several of the long, trailing stalactites hanging from the cave ceiling were twisted in odd directions, bent halfway along their length as though “down” had been abruptly redefined during their growth. They are breaking, thought the weary mare, just like me.

Twisting columns jumped in and out of view in the wavering glare of the her burning lantern, stretching up to unguessed heights and--at times--plunging down to equally unfathomed depths. The vaults through which she wandered were growing larger, she thought, and the stinking air was growing hotter and more humid. The stench was overpowering now, and when she inhaled Sassaflash could feel a foul-tasting greasiness clinging to the roof of her mouth and burning on her tongue. She struggled through another narrow crawl. One less layer of stone stood between her and her goal, fallen behind as she pushed on and down. That was what it felt like: not as though she were delving deeper into a cave, but as though she were pushing barrier after barrier aside, forcing her way towards the source of the foulness that clung to the mountain’s rotting bones. Great grottoes, the columns of their jagged walls twisting and spiralling in strange whorls, passed her by. She skirted abyssal pits and fissures, crawled through crevices in blocking walls, crept along smooth-walled magma tunnels left bare and cold in the volcano’s extinction…

And then suddenly there were no more walls, no more columns, no more pits. As if awaking from a dream, Sassaflash found herself standing on a crumbling ledge in the midst of emptiness, the beam of her carbide lamp shining uselessly off into the void above. It illuminated nothing; the far walls of the chamber were too distant for the beam to reach. A strange wind, noxious, hot, and wet, slid along her frame, picking at her mane and fur with a clammy, unwholesome touch. Despite the bizarre wind, there was a stillness to this place that filled the mare with a strange terror. Something was grasping the stones, the air, the very forces and laws of reality, and binding them in service to an alien will. Nothing could happen here except at its bidding.

The wind shifted. The stone beneath the mare’s hooves shivered. There was a great, lingering sigh from out in the darkness, vast and deadly as the hiss of a boiling sea. Something alive--or not dead, at least--was out there; something huge. In fascinated dread, Sassaflash swung the beam of her lamp slowly down.

In its light, at last, she beheld Tsathoggua.

She beheld Tsathoggua, and the stories were lies. Glib nothings. Fairy tales, told by the ignorant to the foolish. This was the nightmare of Gods, and the God of nightmares.

A sloth? A toad? A bat? All of those, yes, it was understandable that the slobbering, mountainous Thing sprawled flabbily below had been compared to them. The comparison might even have occurred independently to Sassaflash. But this was not because It actually resembled them, or any other living thing. No, it was simply because, in Its bloated, obscene immensity, It was less unlike them than it was anything else. Those drooling slit-mouths could almost be mistaken for eyes, and the writhing, filth-stained tendrils wriggling like dying worms across Its damp, swollen bulk were reminiscent of fur, in a vile, abhorrent sense. It drew a breath, Its wet mass swelling like the rise of an onrushing tide, and that was wrong, for nothing that large should breathe. Nothing that large should ever breathe.

The Thing stirred, and Sassaflash suddenly felt horribly exposed, as though her fur, flesh, and bones had been flayed away, leaving her mind naked and bare. Her thoughts crumbled, pushed aside by an invading presence too large for her head to contain, and Its consciousness smashed against her mind with an almost physical force, sending her stumbling back with a faint cry. For a moment she merely stared at Tsathoggua, incapable of grasping what had just happened, and then a blizzard of fear rushed through her, howling in her thoughts, her memories, her plans, and her very self and freezing them all. It knew. It had not just seen her, but noticed her, perceiving her mind and grasping its contents. She started to fall; she rose; she darted left; she looked, eyes wide and frantic, over her shoulder at the rock wall behind her; she whimpered. There was nowhere to run, nowhere in the universe to run, for no matter where she went this Thing would still exist, and its existence itself was what terrified her. Slothful and ancient, It had slumbered here in Its pit under the Earth for thousands of millions of years, an alien parasite trespassing into the good, sane, wholesome universe and eating out a nest of unreality in the belly of Its host.

A shudder rippled across the ciliated swell of the Beast’s belly, and the mare edged back, cowed and cringing, her eyes clenched shut and her stomach churning. Her legs shook. It was wrong, that Thing. Obscene. Evil. She tried not to vomit. She almost succeeded.

The world wheeled around her, spinning in darkness. She tried focusing on the rock in front of her, eyesight shifting in and out of focus in her near-delirium. Then came a moment of sudden clarity, and she saw, arcing across the stone like a forking branch of lightning, the same symbol or pattern she had seen throughout these caverns, present in the cracks in the walls, in the chance alignment of stalagmites, in the shape of a subterranean stream, in the facets of spindly, brittle crystals…

H’ah, gof’nn.

Sassaflash whinnied in anguish as the eldritch commandment slammed into her brain--but strangely, she had not felt it come from the slavering monstrosity looming out there in the darkness. No, it had come out of the stone in front of her. She stared down in bewilderment and fear, trying to make sense of this new madness--and then her eyes widened.

“No!”

The mare threw herself bodily back from the stone, her face a rictus of fear. Out of the stone itself? No. Out of the pattern etched into the stone. Out of the same “natural” arrangement of cracks and fractures she had seen scattered throughout the bowels of this vile mountain. Out of the symbol that brought death or madness, always, inevitably, to those who saw it and possessed it within their minds. Out of the same sigil that her sister, back in the Hollow Shades, had only half-finished before Sassaflash had shocked her into insensibility.

Out of the Elder Sign.

H’ah, gof’nn. H’ah.

An acrid scent swirled up through the poisonous air, adding a biting, acidic touch to the miasma already choking the pegasus. A rock fell in the deeps as something, or some things, moved in hissing, splashing multitudes far below. Greet her, children. Eat her, children. Do unto her, children. Do unto her. Even in her demented, half-insane state, Sassaflash still remembered enough Aklo to grasp several possible meanings of the Great Old One’s mind-blasting words. They were coming for her, the formless spawn of the God, black and fluid and remorseless. They were coming, and she had no chance of escaping--not from them, and not from anything, now that the Elder Sign was etched into her memory, marking her for all servants of the Old Ones to see. To run would be pointless.

She ran anyway.

At first, the Mule thought the screaming was just another hallucination, like the others—still faint and easily dismissed, at this shallow depth in the mountain—that had begun to plague his mind. It echoed, wavering and shrill, out of the depths ahead of him, and its occasional lapses into silence were interrupted by bursts of mad, cachinnating laughter. Instead of fading away like the other delusions, though, it persisted, growing louder and more desperate as the old creature worked his way deeper into Voormithadreth's heart. He almost would have supposed that it was real, but of course that was impossible; after all, he and Sassaflash were the only two souls in this place, and…

The Mule stopped dead. Sassaflash. But how could that be? He couldn't imagine her in a panic; not her. She was different; she was the Dark Lord Sassaflash, austere, controlled, gripped with iron self-will.

But she was also a pony, and ponies could be broken. He stepped forward, scrambling over rough masses of collapsed rock, sliding along sheets of flowstone, and cantering across the rare flats. There was another scream from the darkness beyond, and this time the Mule could make out distorted words in the stricken howl: “...no such...” The voice lapsed briefly into incomprehensibility, then rang out again, raw and terrified, “...a shoggoth! There should not be such a thing as a shoggoth!” Another, more distant sound echoed out, like the tinging clicks of overheated metal cooling blended with the rush of water. Rock shattered somewhere in the abyss. There was another scream, seemingly closer at hoof: “Iä! Let me be not seen! Iä, Shub-Niggurath! The black goat of the woods with a thousand young!”

Despite his exertion and the stifling heat of the mountain’s depths, the Mule suddenly felt very, very cold. He forced himself not to speed up into a gallop, willing his limbs to move carefully, precisely, safely over the uneven stones. He’d only break his neck if he tried to run. Raising his head, he called out, “I’m a-coming, Miss Sassaflash! Just you sit tight, I’ll be nigh!” His voice was muffled by the lamp’s mouth-grip, but in these echoing caves she should have been able to hear him nonetheless. The only answer he got, though, was a chittering stream of frantic laughter, high-pitched and mad, that crumbled away into a string of gasping sobs.

He came upon her quite suddenly. The Mule had just clambered his way down into a low-ceilinged chamber, scattered with hulking lumps of rock like giant shrouded figures and wide pools of stagnant, lukewarm water, and was just trying to decide which of several black, branching tunnels he should pursue when she charged into view, careening in frantic desperation through the cavern. The mare was a pitiful sight, wild-eyed, tatter-maned, and whimpering. The bundle strapped to her back and her equipment were gone, save for the frayed remnants of a strap still clinging uselessly to her body, and there was a long, bleeding gash along her flank where something sharp had struck her. Gone, too, was her lamp; the Mule could only guess at how she’d managed to come this far without braining herself on a low-hanging rock formation or tumbling into a pit. At the flash of his own light her head turned, but she showed no sign of recognition, bolting past him and whimpering to herself. She was moving like a mouse cornered by a hunting cat, flinging herself forward not to arrive at some destination, but simply to escape. After a moment’s shock the Mule galloped after her.

“Miss Sassaflash, it’s me! Your minion!” He forced himself halfway in front of her, trying to slow her down before she hurt herself. “Miss, ease up! It ain’t--”

“They are coming they are coming gof’nn Tsathoggua Y’ah they have found me forever run!” She struggled away from him, kicking and biting, and charged blindly into one of the chamber walls, her body thudding heavily against the wet cave floor as the impact knocked her to the ground. Struggling to her hooves again, the mare launched herself off towards the steep mound of rubble the Mule had just climbed down, sobbing, “I didn’t mean to see it! I’m too small; don’t look at me! Why does the Elder Sign have to exist? I didn’t mean to see it!”

From somewhere deeper within the mountain there came that same echoing, splashing sound, mixed with harsh metallic tings. He wasn’t sure, but the Mule thought it was nearer than the last time he had heard it. Sassaflash burst into a peal of inane laughter and began to scramble up the slope, clawing her way towards the distant surface. Her minion struggled up after her. “What’s coming? What’d you stir up down under there?”

Sassaflash made no answer at first, her mouth hanging open as she gasped for breath, bruising and cutting herself against the jagged rocks in her desperation. Then there was a sound like a whip crack from somewhere behind, followed by the rumble of falling stones, and the mare screamed and lurched forward. “Not this path! Not this end! Iä, Shub-Niggurath! The black goat of the woods with a thousand young, the black ram of the woods with a thousand ewes!” As she shrieked the last few words of the blasphemous prayer, launching herself in frantic lunges up the slope, a slab of basalt slid out from beneath one of her hind hooves, rattling off to one side. With a strangled scream, Sassaflash reared up in a futile attempt to regain her balance--and then, in her panic and madness, something snapped. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her legs quavered and crumpled beneath her, and she fell, tumbling back down the long, jagged incline. She hit the bottom hard, rolled over several times, and then lay still.

Something slid, hissing, against stone somewhere in the caverns beyond.

The Mule stood frozen in horror for a second, but only a second. Wheeling around, he half-climbed, half-slid down the rubble to where the stricken mare lay sprawled on the cave floor. Whatever was chasing her was drawing very near, and there was no time to crawl out of this place--particularly not dragging an unconscious pony with him. The Mule cast a glance around the cave. Nope. No miracles. No dei ex machina. Just jagged columns and basalt slabs, crumbling rubble and ancient stones. His heart hammering in his chest, the old creature bit down on the strap still bound around Sassaflash and dragged her across the floor into the lee of one of the hulking lumps of twisted ʻaʻā, creeping around it to put its stony bulk between them and the entrances of the passages opening on to the room. Then he raised his lantern, took a deep breath, and blew out the flame.

Total darkness reclaimed the caverns--but not total silence. In the stillness, the Mule could make out a soft, swirling, liquid sound, shifting and hissing as its unseen source poured itself through nearby passages. A faint odor wafted through the air, gritty and biting like the pungent sting of metal dissolving in powerful acid, and the Mule shivered and hunkered down, trying to exist as little as possible. Them’s going to kill us, he thought, his eyes squeezed shut, as though that would somehow make him less visible to whatever alien senses the hunting things were using. Them’s going to kill us dead. We won’t never get home again. He huddled in the dark, crouched next to Sassaflash‘s limp body and waiting for death.

But death never came. Evil bubblings and swishings echoed through the caves as the seeking monstrosities coursed to and fro in search of their prey, and once or twice the sounds and stench grew more intense, as though one of the things had passed by an open tunnel leading into the chamber, but that was all. The hunters seemed confused, somehow, or disorientated, as though abruptly deprived of some crucial clue to the whereabouts of their would-be victims. Maybe they relied on sound, and the sudden silence had baffled them? The Mule just didn’t know.

Whatever the case, though, by degrees the sloshings of the fluid creatures grew fainter as their distance increased, and their occasional strange snaps and plinks faded. At length they subsided into complete silence, although it was some time after he had heard the last faint splash that the Mule dared to move--and even then, he did not light the lamp again. It seemed wiser not to. He turned to Sassaflash, lying limp and still on the cold stone floor, and pressed his ear against her side, listening.

Th-tmp. Th-tmp. With a small, quiet sigh of relief, the Mule raised his head. A heartbeat. She was still alive, at least. Kneeling beside her, he nudged her, and whispered, “Miss Sassaflash? Miss? Miss, wake up. We got to go. Them things is still out there.”

No response. The Mule’s face creased with worry.

“Miss, I...I don’t know what to do. I ain’t strong enough to drag you out’n this place by my lonesome. I don’t know what this place is, I don’t know what them things was, I don’t know what I shouldn’t ought to do, or what I should.” The old creature bit his lip. There had to be something he could do--something he should do. He had so little to go on; just a few oblique hints and ominous warnings, and that was it. She was always so guarded. There had never been a time when she had really said anything, openly and without reserve, and for every word spoken there were always sentences and paragraphs left unsaid. Well, ‘ceptin’ just now, when she was a-screaming and a-carrying on, mused the Mule, wryly. She weren’t hiding nothing then, I don’t reckon.

Maybe that was it, though. Much might be said in the candor of terror; had she revealed anything useful, dropped any precious guidelines, while she was struggling to escape from these monsters? There had been the ranting about Eeyah-Shub-Nibblenath, or whatever it was, but that wasn’t much help. He remembered Sassaflash‘s father whimpering something similar back in the Hollow Shades, when the Dark Lord had erased her sister’s recent memories in an effort to drive the Elder Sign out of her mind, but aside from--

The Mule’s train of thought crashed. The Elder Sign. Cthulhu’s Eye, she had called it, and he remembered the riddle she had posed to Starshade: “Yes, dark things fear the Elder Sign, but did you never think to ask yourself why they fear it? They are slaves of the Great Old Ones—slaves of Their priest, the Dreaming God–and what does a slave fear most?” The eye of their master, obviously. Being noticed. Being seen. And just now, Sassaflash had said that she hadn’t meant to see it, begging something not to look at her--and then asked, desperate and terrified, why the Elder Sign had to exist.

Realization struck, forcing a gasp out of the old creature. They wasn’t following your voice, or smelling you, or nothing; they was following your mind, and when you done got knocked out, they couldn’t follow it no more. But when you wake up again... His throat tightened. If she woke up, they were dead, but if she remained as she was, they were trapped--and would eventually be found and killed just the same.

Eyes wide but unseeing, the Mule stared off into the darkness. For some minutes he made no further move, simply sitting and thinking. Plans, ideas, and possibilities came and went through his mind, all of them impractical, impossible, or immoral to varying degrees, until at last the well ran dry, and he could think of only one way out. It was wrong, and demanded a heavy sacrifice of the Dark Lord--but he wasn’t a schemer like Sassaflash, and this was all he had.

With a weary sigh, the Mule pulled his own saddlebag off his back and began to rummage through its contents, searching by touch for a certain item. "This ain't right,” he muttered. "It just ain't. But I don't see what else I can..." He trailed off, ears lying flat against his head as he hooked a hoof around a bundle of dried worrywort and withdrew it from the satchel. Reaching out a hoof, he gently touched the Dark Lord's bruised, battered side. "I always knew you was hiding an awful lot, but...I only knew it. I didn't see it. The act you was putting on--mostly for your own self, I reckon--was so good, you had me half believin' it, even when I thought I seed through the whole thing." He shook his head. "But watching you having your spell back there, falling apart every which way...You really is a pony under all them fancy words and carryings-on. Not a Dark Lord, not a God-Killer--just a pony. And you been hurting this whole time, hurting bad, and I just been watching, 'cause part o' me didn't really see that--that you was real."

His face hardened. "Well, I ain't a-going to watch no more. I'm getting that thing out'n your head, and then..." He took the wad of worrywort in his mouth, chewing at it to soften it, then spat it out again. "I reckon you ain't never had a friend. Maybe this ain't the best beginning, but starting now I'm gon' try to be one. I just wish I didn't have to start by doing this." Feeling his way over to one of the small subterranean pools he had observed earlier, he scooped up some water in a small cooking pot--he was so, so glad he had just grabbed his pack when he had entered the caverns, without trying to sort out what might be useful or not--and submerged the sheaf of worrywort within it, mashing at the sodden leaves with his hooves to try to leach out their essence into the lukewarm water.

The scent of forgetfulness drifted on the air.

Author's Note

Honestly, at this point I'm having a little difficulty telling whether I'm writing an MLP story with Lovecraftian elements, or a Lovecraftian story with MLP elements; this is certainly more Lovecraftian than most of what's come before, but the next chapter should be rather...different, shall we say, so hopefully that makes up for it. One feature of this chapter, at least, I'm quite sure y'all will enjoy: the excellent piece of artwork depicting 'Sash's encounter with Tsathoggua, expertly drawn by local artist and all around fine feller Raster. All praise unto him!

(Edit:) Oh, and...I'm going to have to beg y'all's willing suspension of disbelief for the use of the old and medically unjustifiable concussion trope on display here. I know full well that any blow to the head capable of knocking one out for many minutes on end is liable to lead to brain damage or death, but...well. I'll claim that MLP ponies are constructed such that mild concussions can knock them out for much longer than humans without permanent damage. Technically, there's even precedent in the show, as Read it and Weep started out with Rainbow Dash slamming into the ground and remaining out of it for long enough for her to be carted to a hospital and properly bandaged up, with no apparent negative mental consequences.

(Edit the Second:) I know no one but me is probably bothered by this, but dagnabbit, that concussion keeps on bothering me. A dead faint from overexertion and raw terror it is, then. That's how I had originally planned it, in any case.

Chapter 9

Nothing.

Empty.

Blank.

Thoughts drifted vaguely through a void, disjointed and incoherent: loose fragments of memory, of self, of pains and plans and fears.

Where was she? Who was she?

There had been ice.

Ice, and above it a mountain. Her thoughts spun about it, giddy and flittering, and every time she tried to grasp them they were carried just beyond her reach--but always the mountain was there, tall and terrible.

Her name was Sassaflash; she remembered, now, her mother calling her that, a long time ago. She wondered where her mother was.

She wondered where she was, and what had happened to her. Her name was Sassaflash, and she was nothing more than an untethered mind, adrift in a white, boundless void. “I can’t see,” she murmured, a little vaguely. “I want to see.”

And a voice replied, “There ain’t anything to see. Not yet, anyhow.”

Her thoughts fluttered nervously like bits of paper in a breeze as the words impinged on her awareness, but soon enough they settled again, falling with slow, aimless grace back into place. She tried to focus on the newcomer. It wasn’t easy. “What--where am I? Where--my name is Sassaflash.“ She was quite certain about that last point, and the certainty comforted her. She felt a need to affirm it.

“I know,” responded the voice. Its words tinged with a note of worry, it continued, “Can you recollect who I am?”

“No, I don’t...wait.” Memories began to reassemble themselves; a want ad, a train--a sunken town, buried deep in an overgrown canyon--ice. A mountain. There was a familiarity to the voice, now. It--he--was somepony she knew. She struggled with her thoughts, trying to force her mind to work. Why couldn’t she think? “You’re...I know you. I know I know you.” A long pause. At last, in a hesitant, wavering voice, she said, “...Mule?”

“That’s right.” And suddenly it was the Mule, standing there with a curious mixture of relief and guilt on his long, homely face, and she was Sassaflash, and they were no longer disembodied voices floating in nothingness, but real and corporeal. Their surroundings were vague and shifting, a sea of impressions and guesses at solidity. Something was around them--they were somewhere--but what and where, Sassaflash could not have said. Only one thing was definite: below them, as if at the bottom of some sort of basin or amphitheater, rose a tall pillar of milky white stone, and winding around and down it into a torchlit shaft beneath was a spiral staircase carved of the same strange, translucent mineral. A cold, odorless wind blew past, rustling against the mare’s mane and sending a faint chill running up her legs. Mist eddied around her fetlocks.

“I don’t understand.” Sassaflash turned, a bit unsteadily, to face the Mule. “What is this place?”

Looking around them at their shifting, misty surroundings, the Mule shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. It don’t signify none, though. It ain’t nothing but a dream, Miss Sassaflash.” He paused. “Leastwise, all but them stairs, there. They’s a mite different. Come on, miss, if’n you don’t care to. I don’t reckon we got much time.” With a quick gesture for her to follow, her minion began to descend towards the spiralling stairs, trotting down what might have been steps and what might have been a gentle slope--or might not have been there at all. After a moment’s hesitation, the Dark Lord followed him, moving in tentative, sideways steps as she edged down the incline. Despite her caution, she slid down the last yard or so, but managed to stay on her hooves. The Mule started forward. “Easy does it, now. Careful.”

“I was being careful. I shouldn’t have--why did I slip? Mr. Mule, I need to know why I slipped, I...I…” The Dark Lord trailed off, blinking as she stared at the ground. “I beg your pardon. I seem to be...confused.” With an effort, the pegasus raised her head and forced herself to focus on the twisting stairs corkscrewing their way underground. “Where do they go?”

“The cavern o’ flame,” said the Mule, with a reassuring smile.

Sassaflash did not appear to have been reassured. “And we need to go there, do we?”

“Oh, it ain’t bad! It’s just got a stick pole in the middle that’s all lit up with fire, is all. Only I reckoned you already knowed about it. It don’t sound like something you heard tell of?”

The Dark Lord blinked. “I am not--I don’t know. I can’t think now.”

The old creature gave an understanding nod. “That’s alright.” Turning, he began to make his way down the steps. As Sassaflash made to follow him, he looked back, and said, “Count ‘em as you go down, Miss Sassaflash. That’s real important. Count the steps, and don’t you lose track o’ how many they is.”

At another time, the mare would have bridled at this idea, queried, sneered. It would have seemed so pointless to her. It seemed pointless to her now, but nonetheless it was something definite. It was something she could do and be confident in her success, and for some reason that mattered. So she followed the Mule down the winding steps without objecting, and counted the steps as she went.

As they made their way deeper underground the light filtering down through the translucent stone dimmed and died, leaving their way lit only by occasional sconces flickering in small recessions in the curving walls.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.

The sound of their hooves echoed hollowly through the winding stairwell, and Sassaflash trotted forward, cutting the distance between herself and the Mule. “This cavern of flame; why are we going there?”

The Mule glanced back. “Oh, it ain’t but a short break along the way; we’re a-going to stop there, say howdy-do to the priest-ponies, and then head on down the seven hunnert steps to the gate o’ deeper slumber, where--”

“Stop!” The Dark Lord held up a hoof. “Just--just stop. ‘The cavern of flame?’ ‘The gate of deeper slumber?’ I don’t--since when did you indulge in mysticism? You never talk this way.”

With a shrug, the Mule turned and clomped on down the stairs. “Maybe you don’t know all they is to know about me. You still counting?”

Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one. “I...Yes, Mr. Mule, I am still counting. I have not lost count.”

“That’s good. You just keep on at it, Miss Sassaflash.”

The air in the stairwell grew drier, and a faint hint of resinous incense wafted up from somewhere below, rising in warm, smoky draughts. Soon a dim, flickering light could be seen shining up through the cloudy stone beneath their hooves, subtle hues of alizarin and cinnabar flickering on their coats and sliding fitfully across the tessellated walls.

One hundred and twenty-four. One hundred and twenty-five. Sassaflash caught the sound of a crackling flame, and after a few more turns of the twisting stairs she and the Mule stepped out into a rough-walled chamber, its unfinished milky walls glowing like burnished brass in the light of a great fire at its center, burning fiercely in a soot-blackened basin atop an alabaster pillar etched with flames. On either side of it stood two unearthly stallions, long-limbed and tall. They were clad in trailing robes of white and crimson, and each was crowned with a tall, shining sekhemti, like those worn by the god-kings of ancient Kesmet. In their regal dignity they would almost have looked like wingless, hornless alicorns, but there was an unpolished edge to the bulge of their jaws and the muscular arch of their thick necks, a subtle savagery in their sharp, unshod hooves, that gave them a primitive, almost feral look. A glimmer of ancient power still shone in their eyes that had long since died out of the waking world.

They bowed their crowned heads in greeting as the two travelers entered the chamber, and the Mule trotted forward and inclined his own scruffy head in acknowledgment. “Howdy, Nasht,” he said to one, and turning to the other, gave a little nod. “Kaman-Thah.”

The being he had named as Kaman-Thah raised an austere head and said, in peculiarly accented tones, “Well met, wanderer.” He directed a piercing gaze at Sassaflash, still hanging back at the entrance to the red-lit chamber. “You bring a stranger?”

A nod. “That I does. We’re in a mighty bad way waking-wards, and we got to talk over what we’re a-going to do someplace safe, where waking time don’t flow so quick. As a matter o’ fact, I’m real sorry, but we can’t stay to chat with your honors.” He bowed to the two robed stallions. “Begging your pardons, o’ course, but we just ain’t got the time.”

“Until a more auspicious hour, then,” said the second stallion, Nasht. “I wish you good fortune, wanderer, and to your companion as well.”

“Thankee kindly.” He gave another quick bow to the priests, and turned to his employer. “Come on, Miss Sassaflash. We best be off.”

The Dark Lord made no response. She had lowered herself to the tiled stone floor, evidently not feeling quite up to standing, and was staring in puzzlement at the priests. “Nasht,” she murmured. “Kaman-Thah. I know those names. I don’t remember their significance, but I do know them, I’m sure of it. But it was not--that was secret lore, I think. Nopony knows those names.” She looked over at the Mule. “How in Equestria are you, of all creatures, involved in this?”

A little shrug was all the answer she got. “We best be off, Miss Sassaflash,” he repeated.

“Yes, very well, I am coming, Mr. Mule.” The mare struggled to her hooves, surprised at her own docility, and stepped slowly after her minion, staring at Nasht and Kaman-Thah the while.

At the other end of the chamber stood an ornate arch of black, irregular blocks set into the white stone of the cavern, and beyond the arch was a long, straight flight of inky stairs, descending far off into shadow. At its entrance the Mule paused, waiting. “How many steps was they?”

“How many--one hundred and thirty-seven.”

“Good. That’s a good number.” The Mule nodded mild approval. “Don’t you go forgetting that, Miss Sassaflash. You ain’t a-going to be able to come here on your lonesome ‘less’n you know that. The stairs’d just go on and on, and you’d keep on a-going down and down and wouldn’t never reach the bottom. That ain’t so for the seven hunnert steps here, though. They’s regular.” His hooves echoing on the heavy basalt flagstones, he began to make his way down, Sassaflash following behind.

“Could you not have simply told me how many there were, then?”

“Oh, no, miss.” He shook his head. “They’s different for everypony. You counted one hunnert and thirty seven, but another pony might count, say, seventy, a-going down the very same steps--and neither o’ you’d be wrong.”

The Dark Lord digested this. “Supposing that I accept that this is so, how many steps were there for you?”

“Three. ‘Tweren’t more than a quick turn down for me. I reckoned you had a piece more, though; you was taking them three steps real slow. You say something, Miss Sassaflash?”

“Nothing, Mr. Mule, nothing at all.”

They proceeded in silence, and by degrees the light filtering down from Nasht and Kaman-Thah’s altar dwindled. There were no sconces or torches lining these black, polished walls, and it was not long before Sassaflash found herself sighting her way only with great difficulty--and, soon enough, not at all. Her minion’s pace never slackened, though, so she continued to plod ahead, guiding herself by the sound of his steps and putting her trust in the regularity of the stone flags beneath her own hooves. Looking back, Sassaflash could still just make out the fierce pinpoint of light of the cavern of flame, but ahead there was nothing--only darkness.

Or perhaps not quite nothing. At odd moments the Dark Lord would catch little almost-glimpses of a faint shape far below: an arched door or gateway, limned in light. As time passed and they progressed ever deeper, the shining outline grew more definite, glowing in the darkness. “The gate of deeper slumber?” hazarded Sassaflash, and the Mule made a rustic noise of assent.

Sooner than Sassaflash would have thought possible, the stairs came to an end, and she found herself standing on level ground, while before her rose the tall, glimmering outline of the gate, peaked and gothic. Her guide--her minion; strange that she should think of him as a guide--began to amble towards the door.

“Wait--Mr. Mule. Wait.” The sound of his hoofsteps ceased. Sassaflash stepped forward. “I don’t--this is familiar to me. All of it. The cavern of flame, the two priests, the gate of deeper slumber and the seven hundred stairs--I’ve read about them before, I know it. I just can’t remember where, or what they mean. Facts are vague, and the connections between them vaguer still. I don’t know what’s happened to my mind…” A thin, brittle thread of fear rose in her voice, but after a moment she muscled it down, and she was herself again. “I have been trying to work this out for myself, but for whatever reason I cannot. So I must ask. Mr. Mule...what is this place? Where are we?”

A moment of silence. “Miss Sassaflash, I ain’t sure if’n you recollect this or no, but a while ago you tole me about a whole world made of dreams, that some ponies who knows the ways is able to visit in their sleep--and that some of them was able to live in, even after they died in the waking world. You was trying to get there your own self, but you wasn’t having much luck. Well, I didn’t say nothing at the time, but I--that is, they’s secrets about the world that most ponies doesn’t know, but that…” He hesitated, and then gave a strange chuckle. “Actually, never you mind all that; I ain’t good at explaining things anyhow. I reckon it’d be best if I just showed you.” The Mule raised his hoof and laid it against the heavy double gate, pushing the thick bronze panels wide. The thin shining sliver marking the crack between the gate’s twin doors widened abruptly. As the Dark Lord raised her hoof to her face, shielding her eyes from the light, she heard the Mule say, “Miss Sassaflash...welcome to the Dreamlands.”

Wind-whipped waves slid lazily over grassy slopes beneath forested hills, sweeping in grand, slow arcs past the occasional cottage and vanishing along the banks of a winding river. Thick cloud banks swirled in the overcast sky while vivid birds darted through the air, warbling and hooting to one another as they sought shelter from the drizzle pattering out of the sky, and a herd of grazing apes, long-limbed and gracile, bounded away over the grass like startled deer. Behind it all, far in the distance, rose masses of rock of unusual steepness and strangely small size, like mountains as imagined by creatures who had only ever seen hills, and overhead the heavy clouds twisted and braided themselves in bizarre, shifting patterns, moving in ways that clouds did not normally move.

Under the sky, over the fields, and through the rain stumped the Mule, damp grass parting around him like water around a ship’s prow, and the Dark Lord Sassaflash followed in his wake. The pace set by the old creature was his customary slow amble. At one point Sassaflash asked whether they ought not to be moving a little faster, but the Mule simply smiled and shook his head. “We got all the time we needs here, Miss Sassaflash. Dreamtime don’t flow the same way that waking time does.”

They had not been walking long before, cresting a high, rounded hill dotted with tall tussocks of waving stalks, they came in view of a little log cabin nestled in the grand shadow of an ancient, gnarled oak. The Mule started forward, almost trotting as he made his way down the gentle slope to the cabin’s front door, while the pegasus mare followed at a slower pace. She was halfway down the hill when Sassaflash caught a glimpse of a figure peering out of the cabin’s raindrop-spattered window, only for it to vanish a moment later. Then the front door swung wide and a mule mare emerged, standing on the stoop with her mane bunched up atop her head in a sensible little bun and her brownish coat softened by scattered gray hairs. Sassaflash stopped, but the Mule hurried onwards, making his awkward way up to the strange mule. She gestured him up on to the stoop out of the rain, nuzzling him affectionately and saying something that Sassaflash, standing stupefied back on the path to the little cabin, didn’t quite catch. The Mule responded, then chuckled; the mare gestured at the Dark Lord; the Mule answered.

Sassaflash watched, many yards away up the path, as the two mules talked and laughed and nuzzled. His wife. She was alive. He was a Dreamer. It was all impossible. The Mule was her minion! Minions didn’t have families or pasts or hidden depths; that was the purview of their masters.

But then, the Mule had always been a very peculiar, complicated minion, and the longer she knew him the more peculiar and complicated he seemed to become.

In a slow, jerking motion, the pegasus mare lowered herself to the wet grass, folding her limbs cat-like beneath her. Rainwater dripped from her mane, sinking into her fur and chilling her skin. In another time and another place she might have strutted boldly down that slope, demanding that the Mule cease his childish displays of affection and devote himself to some more productive occupation, but now...no. She couldn’t walk down among them. This was his moment, his family, his love, and she had no place in it. Her path was austere and remote, threading its narrow way among the stars, far above such earthy, parochial things as families or friendships.

If only, she thought, it wasn’t so cold…

Muted hoofsteps sounded on the grass nearby. “Miss Sassaflash?”

The Dark Lord looked up, blinking away the curious burning sensation that had sprung up in her eyes. Standing in front of her, a lopsided but gentle smile on her long, wrinkled face, was the Mule’s wife, while the Mule himself stood a few steps behind her. The mare held out a knobbly hoof and, crooking her pastern around Sassaflash's foreleg, guided her up on to her hooves. “I’m the Dodge Junction Mule. I’m glad to finally get to meet you; I’ve been told heaps about you by Ponyville here,” she indicated the Mule, “and I’ve been really curious to see you for myself. Come on inside, if you don’t care to, and get yourself dried off. The rain’s picking up, and you’re going to get soaked sitting out here.”

“Ye...Yes. It’s raining,” observed the Dark Lord, as though the fact had only just occurred to her. “I will go inside. We had better go inside. Thank you, Mrs. Dodge Junct--Mrs. Mule--Mrs.--”

“Mrs. Mule’ll do just fine,” said the old mare, her brown eyes twinkling with mild amusement. “Ponyville said you call him Mr. Mule, and I reckon the two of us might as well be a pair. Come on, then.”

With hesitant hoofsteps, the pegasus followed the two mules down the hill to their cabin as the coiling clouds wrung themselves out in the overcast sky overhead. “Watch yourself, the door’s a mite low,” warned Mrs. Mule. Sassaflash nodded, and managed to smack her forehead on the lintel anyway. Clutching her head, the Dark Lord stepped into a solid little room, its walls built of thick logs and its floor made of rough wooden slats softened by a bright braided rug. Patchwork hangings graced the cabin walls, stitched together from bits and pieces of loose fabric, while a crudely-hewn table draped with a sky-blue patterned cloth sat off to one side, chairs clustered around it.

The bemused pegasus stumbled forward, staring around with wide eyes, and then turned to her hostess. “Aren’t you dead? I was told you were dead.” It seemed like an important point to thresh out.

“Yup,” nodded the Mule’s wife. “You weren’t told wrong, but that isn’t the whole story. I’m dead but dreaming, as you might say. Gracious, you look peaked. Why don’t you sit yourself down and get some rest?”

Sassaflash slumped on to one of the chairs with murmured thanks. Mrs. Mule nodded approval. “That’s right. You just take it easy, now.” She turned to her husband, who had just come in out of the rain and was drying his mane on a scarf hanging by the door. “Now you put that down and go get a towel. Land sakes, you’d think you were raised in a barn or something.”

“I was raised in a barn,” came the equable reply.

“That doesn’t mean you have to act like it. Go on, now. Get one for Miss Sassaflash, too.”

With an obedient nod, the Mule ambled off. Mrs. Mule watched him go with a small smile on her awkward face, and then turned to Sassaflash, who seemed to have gotten some sort of formula stuck in her head and was murmuring “Dead but dreaming. Dead but dreaming” over and over to herself.

Tilting her head, the Mule’s wife inquired, “You alright, miss?”

“Dead but--what? Oh. Yes. I am well, thank you.” She paused. “When you said you were ‘dead but dreaming,’ what, exactly…?”

“Well, a year or two back I was dying,” answered the Dodge Junction Mule, in an even, matter-of-fact tone. “Only I didn’t want to. Now, I’ve been Dreaming a long time, and over all those years I got very good at choosing when to wake and when to dream, when to let go and when to hold on--Better than most other mules, I reckon. So I brought myself here to the Dreamlands, I held on as hard as I could, and when I died in the waking world I stayed on here--and I’ve been here ever since. You don’t look right at all, Miss Sassaflash. Can I get you something to eat?”

In a vague way, Sassaflash felt almost offended. As a necromancer, she felt that the story of one’s triumph over mortality should be related with at least some sense of the dramatic. To have the Mule’s wife describe her victory against Ponykind’s oldest foe--or Mulekind’s oldest foe, for that matter--in such a cavalier manner struck her as being in very poor taste.

Oh well. “I--yes, thank you. That would be acceptable.” She wasn’t sure why she had even bothered saying it; her hostess was already halfway to the door that presumably led to the kitchen before she had spoken a word. This death-defying mare clearly planned to see Sassaflash fed and looked after regardless of her own views on the matter. “Dead but dreaming,” she repeated to herself, one last time. Then, in a pensive voice, she intoned, "Ph’nglui mglw’nafh.”

“What was that, Miss Sassaflash?” Hooves clomped on the floor’s wooden planks, and the Mule reentered the room, somewhat drier and carting a worn, folded towel on his back. Shrugging it off on to an upraised hoof, he tossed it over to the Dark Lord, who managed to catch it after flailing around with her hooves for a moment. She raised it to her head and began massaging her mane.

“Nothing, Mr. Mule. Your wife merely recalled something to my memory, that is all.” She paused. “Which is reassuring, I suppose. I can--I think I can--recall the past up to a point; we were traveling, I remember, across the ice of Hippoboroea. But beyond that, there is simply nothing; nothingness and confusion, and a sense of things lost. Mr. Mule, I cannot remember. Something has happened to me. What happened? Why am I like this? How did I come to be here? Why can’t I think?”

The Mule bit his lip. “Well, you come to be here ‘cause I brung you here, first of all. You was lying there in a dead faint, and I went into the dreaming places and found you, or what was left of you--and then led you here. As for what happened to you...You went crazy, you had a fainting spell, you took a tumble down a rock slide, and might could be you hit your head when you falled--only I don’t reckon that was what got rid o’ your memories.” There was a pause while he gathered his thoughts, guilt clouding his homely face. Eventually he looked up and said, “Miss Sassaflash, I done wrong by you. If it weren’t for the shogguses I wouldn’t ha’ done it, but I was right skeert and they was all--”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Sassaflash silenced him with a wave of her hoof. “Shoggoths?”

“That’s it!” The old creature beamed. “I knowed I got that wrong somehow. Shoggoths. If it weren’t for the shoggoths--”

A stern look settled on the Dark Lord’s face, the effect only slightly diminished by the fluffy, faded towel wrapped around her head like a babushka. “Mr. Mule, there is no such thing as a shoggoth.”

With a shrug, the Mule responded, “Right, you said that at the time.” He paused. “Well, screamed, more like. You was pretty far gone by then. But they was something a-slithering and a-splashing around in the dark, something big. I’m only calling them what you called them.”

“I seem to have had a very eventful day.” The Dark Lord digested this for a moment, and then looked up. “But this is beating around the matter at hoof. You said you had done wrong by me, and evidently you wish to dwell on this point--but unless this wrong you did is the entirety of what happened to me between our journey across the ice sheet and the present, I do not wish for it to be the sole burden of your song. It is a figure of speech,” she added, as the Mule started to object that he hadn’t been singing. “I would like for you to simply tell me, without editorializing, what happened between then and now. Can you do this?”

A shrug. “I reckon.”

“Then do so. Please.”

The Mule did so. He told of ice, and snow, and a mountain in the distance, steadily nearing both in space and in mind. He told of a glacier’s end, of bare stone under the Hippoborean sun, of a cave and a farewell and of hesitation. He described how he had defied Sassaflash's order and descended underground after her, and the Dark Lord raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

She had to wait a bit longer than she had expected, for at this juncture the Mule’s wife entered with a tray holding a big bowl of warm hominy grits, buttermilk biscuits, and several bound sheaves of fresh mixed grasses. Sassaflash found that she was far hungrier than she had thought. After the first few minutes, when they had all taken the edge off of their appetites and had settled back to a more leisurely munching, the Mule continued his story, describing hallucinations in the dark, distant screams, and finally his encounter with the terror-maddened Dark Lord herself, fleeing from unknown hunters. “And you was a sight, Miss Sassaflash,” declared the Mule. “All tore up and bruised everywhere. You didn’t have no lamp, and you was missing all them things you brung down with you--every last one.”

“Aw’ o’ the’--eshcoose me.” Sassaflash swallowed. “All of them? I would have been wearing a necklace of clay beads; was that…?”

“Gone.”

“You said I had had a bundle of some sort bound to my back when I entered the mountain. That was gone too?”

“That and everything else,” nodded the Mule.

For a fraction of a second, something that almost looked like a triumphant smile flickered across Sassaflash's face. Then it was gone, replaced by somber attentiveness. “I see. Continue, Mr. Mule, if you please.”

The Mule raised his eyebrows, but made no comment. “There ain’t much more to say, really. You lit out past me a-hollering and a-carrying on, and clumb halfway up a rock slope, trying to get to a higher part o’ the cave. Then you came over all faint--I reckon you was just too skeert and tired and het up to carry on--and fell back down again, all limp like you was dead. Only you wasn’t,” he added.

“Thank you for the reassurance. I had gathered that much.”

“Right. Anyhow, arter that, I…” He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. “Earlier, when you was screaming all them things, Miss Sassaflash, you said something that got me real worrited: ‘I didn’t mean to see it,’ you said. ‘I’m too small; don’t you look at me. Why does the Elder Sign have to exist? I didn’t mean to see it!”

Sassaflash drew a sharp, hissing breath. “Are you saying I saw the Elder Sign?”

“You was saying it, or at least that’s what I figured. Might could be I was wrong. The Elder Sign,” he said, in an aside to his wife, who had been listening with great interest, “is a sort o’ drawing that lets Sassaflashian things sees you. It ain’t healthy to a body to have it stuck in your mind.”

The Dodge Junction Mule nodded comprehension, while Sassaflash made indignant noises about the Mule’s choice of “Sassaflashian” as a descriptor for the thralls of the Great Old Ones. After she had settled down, the Mule continued, “Anyhow, as near as I could tell, you had the Elder Sign in your head--and I also noticed them shoggoths--”

“Hunting beasts of some sort.”

“Right, Miss Sassaflash. Beg pardon. I also noticed them hunting beasts o’ some sort weren’t able to follow us no more, when they hadn’t had no trouble tracking you afore. I reckoned that they’d been following you through the Elder Sign, and when you done fainted, they didn’t have nothing to track.” He paused. “And that’s where I done wrong by you. I reckoned that when you woke up, we’d be et for sure, so I...well, I had a sheaf o’ worrywort with me, and I remembered what you done to your sister back in the Hollow Shades when she saw the Elder Sign, and…”

Sassaflash's head snapped upright, eyes aflame. “Do you mean to say that you force-fed me worrywort? You erased my memories!?”

Quailing before her anger, the Mule stammered, “I’m awful sorry, really, I am--only I didn’t know what else to do. I know ‘tweren’t right, but I just--I couldn’t see my way clear to escaping any other way.”

“So naturally, in your uncertainty and hesitation, you mindwiped me. A sensible and restrained response, indeed! That was completely--an utterly foalish thing to--that--that...” The Dark Lord trailed off, and by degrees the fire flaming in her eyes dwindled. At length, in quite a different voice, she continued, “...That was actually...well done of you, Mr. Mule.” She considered for a moment longer. “Very well done. I don’t pretend that I am comfortable with it, but you are right. I cannot see another course you could have taken. But I do not understand; I was unconscious at this point, correct? And I understand that I am still unconscious, out in the waking world. How did we escape?”

“Well, y’see, funny thing about that,” said the Mule, eyes darting away evasively. “We didn’t exactly escape. We’uns is still down there.”

“What!?” The Mule’s wife, sitting beside Sassaflash, slammed her hooves down on the tabletop and raised herself up, staring across at her husband. “You mean you’re still trapped down there, with shoggoths hunting for you and all, and you just sitting here and eating biscuits and talking as cool as you please? And you ain’t said nothing about it until now?”

“They, um, ain’t no such thing as a shoggoth,” murmured the Mule, meekly.

“‘Ain’t no such thing as a shoggoth!’ They ain’t going to be no such thing as the Ponyville Mule, soon enough! What were you thinking? I don’t want to be a widow mare, Ponyville! Give me them biscuits.”

The Mule held up his hoof. “Now, Dodgy, it ain’t that bad. Or it is that bad, but it won’t be, if’n you follow me.”

“Don’t you ‘Dodgy’ me,” snapped the mare, swiping his hoof away. “And how ain’t it that bad? You know you’ve never been as good at Dreaming as I am; it’s a simple fact. You get et out there, you’re gone down here.”

“I know, I know, but I ain’t a-going to get et. Afore I came down here, I didn’t have no idea what to do, ‘cause...well, I don’t know much about them Sassaflashian critters. I don’t know how to stop ‘em, how to steer clear of ‘em, what they’s skeert of and what they ain’t. But Miss Sassaflash here, she do.”

The Dark Lord, who had been about to object to the repeated use of the term “Sassaflashian,” stopped dead with her mouth hanging half open. “What.”

“You knows all about them critters,” repeated the Mule. “You can figure out a way to get us out o’ them caves. That’s why I brung you here; so I could tell you how we was situated, and so you could have all the time you needed to come up with some plan to get us out safe. You can do that, right?”

The Mule and his wife both turned to look expectantly at Sassaflash, and the Dark Lord shrank back in her chair, suddenly keenly aware that “No” was not an acceptable answer. Speaking with some hesitation, she answered, “Without the charms I used back in the Hollow Shades, our options are somewhat limited, but there are...possibilities.” She had no idea what those possibilities might be, but the two mules didn’t need to know that. “I will need you to tell me a little bit more about our situation, first. What else did I scream during my episode? How far is it to the surface, and what is the terrain like? Were any of my wounds such that I would have difficulty traveling? And so on.”

So what had been a quiet breakfast turned into a planning session, with the Mule providing as many details as he could remember and the Dark Lord trying her level best to look like a wise strategist, and feeling like an imposter. It was a grim situation, and in the end, there was no overarching scheme that presented itself to her; just pieces and suggestions of ideas, unformed and hopeful wisps set against a solid, fearful reality.

But she couldn’t let them know that. She was assured, she was confident, she dropped subtle hints and muttered references to forbidden knowledge. Somewhat to her surprise, it seemed to work. Gradually the care and fear left the face of the Mule’s wife, replaced by a sort of quiet, inscrutable calm, and the Mule himself...well. She never knew what he was thinking, but he seemed comfortable enough.

It was only when they had finished their meal and were preparing for the return to the waking world that Sassaflash learned that her act had not gone over quite as well as she had supposed. The plates had been carted off to the kitchen and washed, the last goodbyes had been said, and Sassaflash was just preparing to follow her minion out the door when his wife pulled her aside, a somber expression on her ungainly face. In a quiet, even undertone, she said, “You bring him back, you hear?”

“Of course,” said Sassaflash and made to leave, but the Dodge Junction Mule shook her head and held up a hoof, blocking the door.

“No, I’m serious. I know you were bluffing, back there when we were talking, and maybe you thought that might work on us--we’re just simple mules, after all.” There was the slightest hint of bitterness in her voice. “But these beasts that are after you, you better have something ready when you meet them, because they sure aren’t going to be impressed by a bluff, and they aren’t going to be polite enough to pretend to be. So you bring him back, Miss Sassaflash. You think of something that brings him back safe. You understand? Because I don’t aim to be a widow.”

The Dark Lord swallowed, and gave a nod. “I promise, Mrs. Mule.”

Stepping back, the Mule’s wife said, “Alrighty, then. Just so we’re clear. Goodbye, Miss Sassaflash, and good luck.”

With another nod, Sassaflash turned and stepped down off the cabin’s stoop, hurrying along to catch up with the Mule. As they reached the spot halfway up the hill where she had stood earlier that morning, watching the Mule and his wife greet each other, she turned and looked back at the little cabin, dappled with yellow-green light shining through the leaves of the overshadowing oak tree, its boughs still moist from the drizzle earlier in the day. She remembered seeing their happiness, and knowing that her place was outside, in cold, desolate austerity. She remembered being invited down, given comfort, given food. She remembered, for a moment, not being alone.

The Mule halted some yards ahead and looked back at her. “You coming, Miss Sassaflash?“

“Yes, I just...that is, yes. I am coming.” A pause. “Thank you, Mr. Mule.”

“What for?”

The Dark Lord looked back at the comfortable cabin, nestled there in the glen, and then gave her head a little shake. “For...your presence of mind in using worrywort, of course. Saving my life. What else would I be thanking you for?” She raised a hoof, shading her eyes as she peered off at the distant sloping line of green forest that concealed, somewhere within it, the gate of deeper slumber. “Come, Mr. Mule. We are not safe yet. We have much to do, and far to go. Let us return to the waking world, and whatever perils may await us there.”

“Yes, Miss Sassaflash.”

Chapter 10

The scent of rain and the sound of water pattering on oak leaves. Slate-blue storm clouds, curling around the peaks of distant mountains and filling the sky with heavy, soft shadows. The curious whistling cry of a tree snake, the light of scattered sunbeams falling between the clouds, the smell of warm, buttery grits and biscuits, the smiling face of the Dodge Junction mule, her mane tied up in a neat, graying bun…

The Mule trudged through the caverns after the Dark Lord Sassaflash, struggling to breathe in the leaden air as he clambered up and over piles of damp rubble or inched around great arches and chasms of tormented rock, and as he followed he fought to keep the memories of the Dreamlands fresh in his mind. They seemed so much less real, now, here in the dark. The alien Mind coursing over and through and around them bit and gnawed at his sense of self as it surged past, tearing thoughts free and dragging them away with it. The only real things left were the boulders flickering in and out of sight in the carbide lamp’s cone of light, the clammy, muggy wetness of the air clinging to his fur, the overwhelming pressure of the God’s mind smothering his own, and the sound of hunting things, following them in the darkness.

It had only been a suspicion at first, lingering at the edge of the Mule’s thoughts as he and the Dark Lord picked their way through the depths of Voormithadreth, creeping back towards the surface and the pure, wholesome clarity of the Sun. With every new rattle of rocks falling, though, or sluicing, slithering, fluid sound somewhere off in the darkness, he grew more and more sure of it. They were being followed.

They were being followed. He had dismissed the noises after they had first awoken from their sojourn through the Dreamlands--after all, if the not-shoggoths had found them, he reckoned they’d be doing a lot more than just making the occasional ominous noise, particularly with Sassaflash still weak from her earlier mad dash. He glanced over at the mare, noting the long, ugly cut along her flank, her bruised and battered hide, and the awkward, hobbled way she avoided putting weight on her left hind leg, and winced. And her fall. And--a twinge of guilt, here--her drugging with worrywort.

As time passed, though, his confidence wavered into uncertainty, and that uncertainty began to shift to something very like fear. They were being followed. They had trotted along a promising passageway and passed a dark, still lake that reflected the light of the Mule’s lamp like a mirror of black volcanic glass, and when the passageway had turned out to be a dead end and they retraced their steps, they found only an empty basin and a slick, tarry residue that burned to the touch. They were being followed. Once a stalactite plummeted down from above and very nearly impaled the Mule--would have done so, in fact, had Sassaflash not happened to have been looking in the right direction at the right time and shoved him out of the way. They were being followed. Rocks fell, close and sudden,and chasms opened. They were being followed. Ledges cracked underhoof. They were being followed. They were--

“Enough! Enough!” With a snap of her tail, the Dark Lord Sassaflash slammed her forehooves down against the greasy, flaking stone of the cave floor. The crack of breaking rock rang out for just a moment in the suffocating, humid air, and then was swallowed up by silence. Her chest heaving with exhaustion and fear, the mare stared up into the vaulted darkness around them, eyes blazing. “Are we so terrifying, that you hang back from us? Why so coy, Tsathogguanyth? Just end us, if you’re going to end us! Stop playing with us!”

The Mule almost dropped his lamp in surprise, but recovered himself in time. Hurriedly setting it down on the moist cave floor, he stepped forward to the Dark Lord’s side, and in an urgent whisper said, “I reckon we shouldn’t ought to be making noise, miss. Maybe them things don’t know we’uns is here.”

“Oh, they know. They know!” She whipped around, stumbling a bit as her weight fell on her bad leg, and screeched, “Y’ah! Is that not what the Old One commanded? C’ilyaa n’ghaog! Y’stell'bsna n’ghao--”

“Miss Sassaflash, stop! Please!” The old creature’s voice broke, his homely face creased with fear and his long ears folded back and quivering. “I tole Missus Mule I wouldn’t make her no widow mare!”

“Do you think that is my choice to make, Mr. Mule? Our lives are in their power, now, and it seems they have chosen to drag out our deaths, playing with us before striking the final blow! Why should I not rage at the darkness?” The Dark Lord stared at her minion, angry defiance in her eyes. By degrees the fire faded, and at length her lashing tail fell limp against the cave floor and her spread wings slumped back against her sides. In a quiet, helpless voice, she murmured, “Why should I not?”

At first the Mule made no reply. Then, with a sigh, he replied, “Miss Sassaflash…I knows you was bluffing back in the Dreamlands, telling them lily-white lies to make me and the missus feel easy. I knows you reckon you can’t do nothing against them things.”

He raised his head. “But I reckon different. I seen what you can do when you really puts your mind to it. You’re right skeert, now, and hurt, and tuckered out, and you reckon that means you done lost, and they’ve won, ‘cause you ain’t in control no more. But that just ain’t so. We surprised ‘em onct, when we got the Elder Sign outen your head--and we can do it again.”

Sassaflash considered this. Then, with some hesitation, she said, “You are surprisingly perceptive at times, Mr. Mule. Perhaps you are right.” Her brow furrowed. “But I cannot see a way out. I no longer have the charms that I could have used to drain them of magic--although whether that would even have been effective, so close to Tsathoggua, I cannot say. My command of Aklo is certainly sufficient to direct reality in certain advantageous ways, but where I am merely borrowing power, they were born into it. They could counter anything I brought forth. Despite your successful removal of the Elder Sign from my mind, which must have confused them mightily, they are evidently confident enough in their strength to play with us rather than killing us outright. Unless, of course,” the mare gave a short, humorless laugh, “we actually frightened them with our little amnesia trick, and they’re hanging back because they’re afraid of…”

The Dark Lord trailed off. Her companion tilted his head in puzzlement, long ears flopping over to one side. “You ain’t thought o’ something, have you?”

“No. Yes. Perhaps.” Sassaflash gave a pensive little flick of her tailtip, and for some moments she said nothing, her head bent in thought. Behind her, her shadow stretched out long in the glare of the carbide lamp, the black silhouette falling against the far wall of the cave. She turned, squinting, and looked into the light. In a quiet, pensive tone, she said, “I saw the Elder Sign. Somewhere in these caves, then, the Elder Sign--Cthulhu’s Eye--is visible, and the thralls of the Great Old Ones fear it, for through it they may be perceived by the Dreaming God. In the perpetual darkness of Voormithadreth, of course, it would be invisible, but supposing somepony were to bring a light into the depths…” She pondered for a moment longer, and then, a thread of tension running through her voice, she continued, “I think, Mr. Mule, it might be best if we did not look at the walls of these caverns too closely. Or the floors. Or anything. If I am right, to do so might be...unwholesome. Do not let your eyes focus on any one object for long. We do not know what it looks like, and we do not want to find out.”

Her minion peered at the walls in confusion for a moment, and then his eyes widened, and he quickly shifted his gaze off to one side of the lamp’s cone of light, trying not to look at the illuminated stones. “That’s why they ain’t attacked us? They’s afraid of seeing it?”

“Not precisely. They are afraid of it seeing them. It is not healthy to draw the attention of Cthulhu, even for creatures of their ilk.”

The Mule blinked. “But ain’t they on Kuthoo-whatsit’s side? Them’s sort o’ like His children, ain’t they? Why would they be skeert o’ Him?”

“He is a slavemaster to them, Mr. Mule, not a father.” She turned, lurching as she shifted her weight, and flung her wings wide to keep her balance, broken and missing feathers showing as she stretched them out. “And we are fortunate, perhaps, that that is so. If I am correct in my guess, and they will not dare approach us while we carry light with us, then we may have a chance yet--at least of getting out of these caves. Once outside, where presumably the Sign may not be found, things may prove more...treacherous.”

Step by step, cavern by cavern, they made their way up through the mountain, crawling up out of the miasma of fear and madness clinging around the Thing that squatted, obscene and immense, deep beneath. Whatever the reason for their timidity, their pursuers remained just as strangely cautious, and although there were numerous further indirect attacks--rocks falling out of the darkness above, platforms shattering beneath their hooves, and even once a venomous, choking vapor that rose up out of the cracks in the ground around them, and would have felled them had Sassaflash not quickly spat out a few guttural words, unnatural-sounding and harsh to the ear, that dissipated the mist--they made surprisingly good progress. After a shorter time than he would have thought possible, the Mule began to catch brief whiffs of cold, clean air, very different from the heavy, choking stench of the depths. Mist swirled about them, flowing and eddying in the light of their lamp as chill gusts from above mingled with the humid air, and at long last there came the moment when the Dark Lord nudged him in the ribs and silently pointed a hoof upwards, to a thin, piercing gleam of white daylight shining down through a crevice far above.

It was not, they soon found, the same fumarole by which they had entered; somehow or other, they must have taken a left turn when they should have taken a right, or squirmed beneath some obstacle that they should have climbed over. The way up to the surface proved more difficult than their original path, and if it hadn’t been for the extra supplies the Mule had brought down with him, including another length of rope, they would never have been able to reach it at all. At long last, though, the weary pair struggled up on to one last ledge, crawled up one last slope of scree, and with a grating of stone against stone and a few hisses of pain as the sharp-edged rim of the crevice bit a little too deeply into their bruised hides, pulled themselves out on to the wide, barren flanks of Voormithadreth.

Steam roiled and swirled up from the vent behind them as they panted in the sunlight, savoring the sweet, almost painful bite of frigid air in their lungs. Sassaflash was the first to rise, forcing herself up on to her aching hooves and biting her lip once or twice. Ugly purple-black bruises showed through her turquoise fur, and her shivering flanks were flecked with foam. Turning to her minion, she said, “We must not linger, Mr. Mule. If my guess is correct, our pursuers will not long wait, now that we are no longer near Cthulhu’s Eye. Come. We must find our way back to the campsite.”

With a groan, the Mule lifted himself up, shivering a bit as the icy wind cut across his skin, still damp from the humid depths. Blinking rheumy eyes, he peered slowly about them, taking in the lay of the mountain around the jutting crag on which they stood. Dull, bare basalt surrounded them, rising in uncouth crags and rubble fields and utterly snowless but for a few isolated patches huddling in the crevices beneath great boulders, shining sky blue in the shadows. “Can’t say as how I recognize this place, Miss Sassaflash,” he muttered. “Them stone cliffs all look the same. That rockslide there, though...You see?”

“Indeed.” A curt nod. “I believe we have our heading. Come, Mr. Mule. We must make haste. Be wary.”

Their passage down the mountain was uneventful--too uneventful, almost. Even the rockfalls and crumbling footing that had threatened them were gone, along with the occasional liquid splashings and hissings that they had heard in the depths. Tsathoggua and his spawn had not forgotten them; they could still feel the pressure of the God’s mind bearing down on their own, always drawing their attention backwards and below and scattering their thoughts, and there was a keen edge of attentiveness to that pressure.

Yet the hunting things made no move. Minutes passed, tens of minutes, hours. They crept along precipices from which they could have been easily struck down and passed under precarious rubble slopes that would have needed just a nudge to come crashing down on their heads, and yet nothing happened. Sassaflash began to cast quick, nervous glances behind them, tensing at the slightest sound and muttering or cursing to herself in evil-sounding, forbidden languages, and even the Mule, imperturbable as he was, found himself growing anxious, his scrubby tail switching back and forth as though he could brush away the uncanny sense of watchfulness surrounding them. They were escaping too easily. Something would happen. Something must.

The Sun sank lower in the sky, drawing the vast, icy plains of Hippoborea down into the shifting twilight of the northern night, painted in shades of blue for which there were no words in common Equestrian. There were, Sassaflash told the Mule, wandering tribes of mammoths in the ice-clad forests to the South of this frozen waste whose language had words for these shades--goluboy, they would have called some of the pale, unearthly hues, and other, deeper ones would be siniy. The Mule gave a vague nod, said something good-natured about “furriners” and their strange ways, and plodded on. In the gloom he was beginning to recognize the boulders and rocks around them. They were no longer following their path from a distance, but were now retracing their own hoofsteps, passing along ridges and around crevasses that they had encountered when first leaving their camp to journey up the mountain. They were close, very close. Sassaflash quickened her pace at his side, evidently thinking along the same lines as he was. Just past that boulder, beyond that cleft in the mountain’s flanks...They crested one last pile of jagged, fragmented ʻaʻā, thrown up by some ancient convulsion of the Earth, and the Mule’s heart leapt at the sight of the white fabric of their tents in the hollow below. They were very far from being out of danger, of course, but it was still a huge relief, somehow, to see shelter again--to see something crafted by good, simple ponies, and not by the wild forces of nature or the incomprensible minds of ancient Gods.

Then he stopped, a shiver of fear running up his back, and beside him the Dark Lord drew a sharp, hissing intake of breath. There was something wrong about the shapes of the distant specks of white; rather than sitting, neat and orderly, as they ought to have, they lay scattered about the hollow, torn and flapping in the night winds. As they stood, frozen to the spot, one of the distant fragments of fabric broke loose from the rock that had been pinning it down, and went snapping and fluttering off into the darkness.

Neither the Dark Lord nor her minion said a word as they slowly picked their way down to the remains of their campsite. There was no need to; as they drew closer they could see what had happened, plain enough. Everything had been destroyed. Tents ripped to shreds, supplies torn, crushed, dissolved, eaten away by noxious acids or befouled by evil-smelling secretions. A few scattered books lay about them, one or two pages still clinging pathetically to their mutilated bindings. Her steps slow and uncertain, Sassaflash stumbled over to the sad, bent remnants of what had been a particularly hefty tome, now lying with its spine cracked across a sharp chunk of rock glistening with oily black liquid. Half of its cover lay some yards away; walking over to it, the Mule could just make out the letters “-unomicon,” the stitched glyphs darkened and frayed by the acidic dampness that had soaked into the binding.

He raised his head and looked over to the Dark Lord. She sat, shoulders hunched and head bowed, staring down at the fragment in front of her with empty eyes. Her shoulders shook and she slumped forward, one hoof resting on the destroyed book.

The Mule stepped towards Sassaflash, hurrying to comfort her, but to his astonishment she had begun to wrench herself back under control before he had even covered half the distance between them. As he drew near she raised a hoof and gestured him away, her face averted. “No...No.” Another shudder ran down her body. “Away. Please.”

“Miss Sassaflash, I--”

“Away!”

The Mule stood beside her for a moment, uncertain, and then stepped back. As he did Sassaflash forced herself to her hooves, her wings held half-open and quivering at her sides. She gave a small gasp of pain as the muscles along her flank flexed, stretching the inflamed, scabbed-over gash along her side that she had sustained within Voormithadreth. Her minion’s ears fell back against his head, and his face twisted in worry. “Miss Sassaflash, we ought to see to that there cut you got. Maybe they’s some bandages left somewheres.”

“We…” She drew a ragged, choking breath as she turned to look at him, eyes steely. “We need to see to our supplies. Food. A compass. My...my books…” Her voice quavered, and then she was in control again. “We must find out if they have left us anything. If there’s any way for us to keep alive long enough to get home. Search. Hurry!”

The Mule hesitated, but after another fiery glare from the Dark Lord he turned and did as she had bidden. There was, unfortunately, very little searching required; the Things from beneath had done their job too thoroughly. The only food he found, a few scattered wisps of hay and half an alfalfa brick, had been soaked in the same black, acrid residue they had encountered in the caverns, and were in the process of dissolving into a sort of greenish-black goo. He gave the alfalfa brick an extremely tentative lick, on the off chance it was still edible, and then had to spend the next five minutes washing his mouth out with snow scooped from a shadowed hollow beneath a boulder before he was able to breathe without gagging. Their cloaks and other cold-weather gear had been shredded and scattered to the winds, their maps had simply disappeared, their cooking ware was buckled, torn, and corroded, the tents were nothing but a few fraying tatters...It was all gone.

After half an hour of fruitless searching, the Mule heard the sound of hooves crunching on the black volcanic clinkers behind him, and turned to see his employer hobbling towards him, wincing a bit as she walked. Her eyes were red, but dry, and her breathing was even. In a level, controlled voice, she said, “Did they leave us anything? Even something inconsequential--a scarf, a grapnel, some worrywort? Was there any worrywort left? Any at all?”

He shook his head. “Not as I can make out. They done ruined everything.” A pause. “Miss Sassaflash...what are we going to do?”

“I don’t--I cannot say.” There was a strange expression on her face that the Mule did not quite like. “Nothing, most likely. That is certainly what they intend...Come, Mr. Mule. Let us away from this place. I will not die on their doorstep.” She plodded past him, her wings hanging low and her tail dragging limply through the grit.

“We ain’t dead yet, you know,” said the Mule, hurrying after her. She made no response, simply trudging on down Voormithadreth’s slope towards the glacial outwash plain surrounding the mountain, its surface braided with countless wandering rivulets of water. After the silence grew too uncomfortable, the old creature ventured, “Where they’s life, they’s--”

“Hope? Is that what you were going to say? Ha!” A bitter laugh. “Hope is a lie, told by the ignorant to the foolish. There is no hope in a world shaped and dominated by the Great Old Ones. Where there’s life, there’s death. That is how the saying should go. That is the truth.”

“I allow as how it looks like that, now, but I don’t reckon that that’s so.” A pause for thought. “It shouldn’t ought to be so. We shouldn’t let it be so! I promised Dodgy that I’d come home safe to her, and I ain’t a-going to give up on that promise just yet. I can’t.”

“Can you not?” Sassaflash raised her head, gazing out across the broad plain surrounding them. They had left the mountain’s flanks behind, now, and all around them were the scattered boulders, rubble, grit, and sand that had been borne down from the ice sheet surrounding Voormithadreth, washed out into a great, empty expanse. “No, perhaps you can’t.” She sighed. “I made a promise, too--that I would bring you back safe to her. And,” she continued, her ears pricking up and eyes widening in mild surprise, “I think I meant it. I believe I truly did. Perhaps…”

The Dark Lord stopped suddenly, and raised her head, ears aloft. The Mule blinked. “Miss Sassaflash, what--”

“Quiet!” She stood, tall and alert, wings flared while she scanned the horizon, and then turned to look back the way they had come. Her eyes narrowed, and the Mule started and looked backwards, as well. There had been a sound, a sharp, ringing crack of rock shattering back across the outwash plain, on the slopes of Voormithadreth. Its echoes rang out across the emptiness, fading away into a silence that endured for a half a minute, a minute, two minutes…

Then something moved there, among the deep blue shadows between the boulders--a distant shadow, black as midnight and swift as quicksilver, coursing like water down the mountain’s face. Across cliff faces, up precipices, and over gorges in fluid flowing leaps it sped, glinting in the moonlight as it rushed down the mountain towards the Dark Lord and her minion.

Another crack rang out, and the first hunting thing was joined by a second, gushing out of a crevice in a sheer cliff and splashing to the rocks below. A third joined them, and then a fourth, and a fifth...Sleek, glistening, and horribly alive, they poured noiselessly down the mountain towards the Dark Lord and her minion. The Mule took a step back, ears flattened back against his head and horror on his face, but Sassaflash simply stared, unbelieving. “But they--they had already as good as killed us! We were going to die, freezing to death in the wastes! They knew that!” The foremost of the liquid things poured out along the last outflung rampart of the mountain, sliding swiftly towards the plain where its prey waited. Sassaflash stamped a hoof, her voice rising. “Is it not enough? Is it not enough, gof’nn Tsathoggua, that you have trapped us in a pit from which there is no escape? Must you strike the killing blow as well? Can you not grant us the simple dignity of dying on our own terms?”

The servants of the Sleeper of N’kai swept out on to the plain, twisting and writhing across the rubble with impossible speed. Rocks hissed and snapped as they flowed past, exploding and cracking at their corrupting touch. The Dark Lord’s eyes blazed, and she stepped forward, putting herself between the onrushing monsters and the Mule. “I will not die as just another helpless victim, crying in the dark! I am far more than that. I have walked in the hoofsteps of Abd Al-Hisan! I have seen Irem of the Pillars, in the wastes of the Rub’ al Khayl! I have glimpsed Leng, and stolen forbidden secrets from the claws of the Mi-Go! I have brought the dead back to life!” The nearest of the flowing things began to rise as it plunged towards them, curling itself up into a great black wave. Behind it, the others began to do the same. The Dark Lord spread her wings, and at her hooves pebbles trembled, rocking back and forth with a faint clicking and clattering. “And I am the Dark Lord Sassaflash!”

Sassaflash bent her right wing in front of her, and then swept it wide--and with a rush and clatter, a stream of pebbles shot up from the ground, following her wing through the air to stretch out into a hovering diagonal line of stones. Another wingbeat, and a second and third branch of pebbles shot out at an angle from the line’s middle, one stabbing up and the other stretching out to her left to form a strange, suspended sigil like a bird’s claw, floating in midair. She bent both her wings forward, raised a hoof--

And the wave of death rushing towards them foundered and crashed, falling in on itself and flowing harmlessly around them in a wide semicircle. The others behind it slowed their mad rush forwards, trailing off into black, waiting pools.

Absolute silence.

A predatory ripple shivered across the thing half-surrounding them, and with a quick sweep of her forehoof, the Dark Lord ripped another line of pebbles up into the air, forming a second upward branch bound to the long diagonal line. The little stones hung, sharp and clear in the twilight, between the two mortals and the Godspawn.

Then, slowly and reluctantly, the foremost mass of black fluid flowed away from them, draining back towards the mountain from whence it had come. The others hesitated, but Sassaflash brought another hoof forwards, as if to command more pebbles into the air in front of her, and they fell back as well, washing across the plain like a retreating tide with an occasional crack of shattering rock or a tinging sound like hot metal cooling. The black beings banked against the mountain’s slopes, and then, in sullen drifting motions, slid back up the slopes and sank into the crevices from which they had emerged.

The pebbles fell from out of the air, rattling to the ground and bouncing here and there around the mare and mule. The Mule abruptly realized that he had been holding his breath, and inhaled with a sharp gasp. After drawing a deep breath herself, Sassaflash said, very decisively, “Those were not shoggoths.”

“That’s, um--I’m mighty glad to hear that, miss,” said the Mule. “But what--how--”

“That was the Elder Sign, Mr. Mule, or part of it. I did not draw the whole thing.”

Her minion’s eyes widened. “But you--you know it? And we don’t have no more worrywort now, so we can’t--”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Mule. I did not say I knew the Elder Sign.”

“But that don’t make no sense. If’n you don’t know it, then how was you able to draw it?”

The mare looked at her minion, an odd smile on her face. “It was your wife who gave me the idea, truth be told. Before we left your cottage, she took me aside and told me that she hadn’t been fooled by my show of false confidence. That she knew I was bluffing. ‘But these beasts that are after you,’ she told me, ‘aren’t going to be impressed by a bluff. You better have something ready when you meet them.’” Another smile. “She was wrong.”

The Mule’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t follow.”

“It is quite simple. It was a bluff. I do not know the Elder Sign--but I do know part of it, because my sister, back in the Hollow Shades, very kindly showed it to me when she was trying to cast me out or repel me or--or whatever the poor foal thought she was doing. So, when confronted by Tsathoggua’s formless spawn, I drew the part of it that I knew, and acted as though I knew the rest, and would show it to them if they attacked. And it worked.”

The Mule gave a long, low whistle. “Well, don’t that just beat all. That’s mighty clever o’ you, Miss Sassaflash, and I don’t care who knows I said it.”

“Hrmph! It would have been clever had I thought of it earlier. As it was it was merely fortuitous.” But the smile remained on her face, nonetheless.

A cold wind swept past them, driving thin wisps of powder-dry ice dust along with it and whistling mournfully around the edges of the stones of the sandur. The Mule shivered. “So...what do we do now?”

“Die, quite possibly. That is certainly what they intended, and with no food, no supplies, and no shelter, it would seem inevitable. But you were right, Mr. Mule, and I was wrong. We are not dead yet. Not quite.” She raised her head, peering off at the jagged silhouette of the distant mountains, brooding in silence on the horizon.

At length she turned to her minion. “Mr. Mule, I have been considering our position. The Thing beneath intends for it to be hopeless, and so it would be--but I refuse to allow it to be so. I, the Dark Lord Sassaflash…!” She raised a hoof as if to shake it defiantly in the air, and then gave an odd, sad laugh and lowered it again. “That is, there may be a chance. May be. There was a famine, of course, and after all these millennia any food would have long since crumbled away even in this clime, but there may be some of the old magics remaining. Perhaps a teleportation spell might be arranged...Well. We shall see.” Pebbles grated under her hooves as she stepped forth, limping along at an angle to Voormithadreth towards the peaks that rose beyond and behind it.

The Mule hurried after. “Begging your pardon, I’m sure, but I can’t say as how I follow. What are you fixing to do?”

She made no answer at first, gazing out across the windswept sandur at the rising wall of ice beyond and, far above it but not so very far away, the nearest mountain in the Eiglophian range. Then, still looking ahead, she said, “There is an old story told by ponies, Mr. Mule. One of the oldest, in fact, although few guess at its true antiquity. It tells of six wanderers, who left their homeland behind and journeyed far in search of a new land. Two were pegasi, two were unicorns, and two were Earth ponies--and they hailed from three different nations, ravaged by famine and sundered by mutual hatred. The names of those nations are long since lost to us, but by tradition they are given the names that their sole survivors thought to give to the new land they found: Unicornia, Pegasopolis, and Earth.”

“The Hearth’s Warming Eve story.”

“Precisely.” Sassaflash gave a curt nod. Water splashed around her hooves as she waded through a twisted, wandering outwash channel, snaking its way across the plain, and she shuddered at the bone-freezing chill of the icy water splashing against her skin. “A quaint little fable, with an agreeably anodyne moral. It soothes the rabble. It would be of little interest to the seeker into hidden truths, but for the peculiar fact,” here she came to a halt and looked back at the Mule, “that it is true.”

“Is that so?” prompted the Mule, with just the right note of surprised wonder. He might have said more--particularly about that word “anodyne,” which he wasn’t familiar with, but suspected was not complimentary--but he had been in the company of the Dark Lord long enough to recognize when she was monologuing. Something resembling an actual response would only fluster her, and she had had a hard day. He was content to humor her.

His short acknowledgement of her speech seemed to satisfy her, at least. “Indeed. The nations we call Unicornia, Pegasopolis and Earth were very real, and they did indeed succumb to ice and hunger long ago, in the forgotten ages of the world, and were abandoned." A pause. "But did you never stop to wonder, Mr. Mule, what became of them after that?"

"Can't say as how I ever thought on that," said the Mule. "I reckon the storms and ice snows them wendigos brought went away sooner or later, and they's a-lying out there somewheres, all them old towers and walls just standing empty." He blinked. "That's a mite creepy."

"I would have thought you'd be used to that at this stage in the game," observed the Dark Lord. "But your surmise is incorrect. The ice never melted, and the cold never waned." She looked out across the sandur at the great white rampart that marked the beginning of the ice sheet, the mountains rising black and snowless beyond it. "Quite the contrary, in fact..." Glancing back at her minion, Sassaflash said, "Welcome to the Unicornian Empire, Mr. Mule."

Author's Note

My most hearty thanks to Themaskedferret, without whose invaluable editing and author-prompting this chapter would both shabbier and, most likely, still incomplete. Thanks to the aforementioned prompting and editing, I confidently expect the next chapter to be finished far, far sooner than this one was (as in, just a few weeks, possibly. The train's back on the rails!). All praises unto her!

Chapter 11

"So that's how we's situated," said the Mule, looking out across the shifting stalks of grass bending to and fro in the wind. There was a fiery glow on the grain, cast by the Sun setting behind the weird, warped mountains of the Dreamlands, and a warm breeze ruffled the Mule's uneven fur. He looked back to his wife, sitting beside him on their gnarled wooden stoop with a shawl wrapped around her knobbly shoulders. "I allow as how it looks mighty grim, but like I tole Miss Sassaflash, we ain't dead yet."

The Dodge Junction Mule frowned, her long ears lying flat against her head like a rabbit’s, and gave an irritable little swish of her tail. "That's as may be, but I'm not real happy that 'Not dead yet' is the best that can be said about how y'all are. I'd like you to be a little better off than 'Not dead yet.'"

"I know, Dodgy, I know." The Mule leaned over and nuzzled his wife, and after a moment's hesitation she leaned against him, resting her weight against his side. Neither mule said anything for some minutes, sitting in peaceful silence and watching the fiery Sun sink slowly behind the strange mountains. At length, the Dodge Junction Mule spoke up again.

"What are y'all going to do, though? You don't have much food, you don't have much shelter, you've got precious little hope..."

"Now, Dodgy, it ain't that bad."

The Mule's wife gave him a peremptory little swat with her tail. "Don't you 'Now, Dodgy' me, Ponyville. It's exactly that bad, and you know it. I just..." She bit her lip. A sudden quaver crept into her voice. "I can't see how you can get out of this alive. I don't want to lose you."

At first the Mule made no response. Then, in a slow, thoughtful tone, he said, "I don't reckon you're a-going to. I really don't, Dodgy, and that's a fact. It don't seem like this is how Miss Sassaflash'll die.

"She's a quare one, that mare--mighty quare. I can't say as how I understand her half the time, and the other half she seems like she ain't nothing but airs, all puffed up and strutting around like an 'ol rooster chicken a-lording it over the barnyard. She reckons she's got a destiny, that's for sure, and mostly I don't hold no truck with ponies who thinks they's got destinies. When the world don't give 'em what they reckon they deserves, they get desperate and start stepping on other ponies to try and get what they want.

"But Miss Sassaflash...When the world don't give her what she reckons she deserves, she don't take it out on the ponies around her. She takes it out on the world itself. She grabs it by the neck, and she twists and twists until she makes it give her what she wants."

There was a chill to the breeze rustling through the grass, now, and the oak leaves overhead whispered and muttered in the wind. The Mule’s wife reached up and pulled her shawl over to wrap it around her husband's shoulders as well, saying as she did so, "She doesn't sound like a very nice pony." The Mule shrugged.

"Sometimes she ain't. Other times, though...I don't reckon she's a bad pony. I wouldn't a' kept on traveling with her if I did. But something's done digged itself deep down in her mind, something bad, and she ain't figgered out that the thing that's hurting her so much is inside her, not out in the world. I wish I knowed what it was, but she don't talk about it, even when I ask her direct-like. And now she's up and made this plan o' hern, to get back at the world for what she thinks it done to her.” He gave his wife a sly, sideways glance, and casually added, “She been telling me a whole lot more about it this past day, by the by.”

“Has she now!” The Dodge Junction Mule gave a short whistle of surprise. “And she being so coy about it for so long, too! How’d you finally get her to come clean?”

The Mule shrugged. “I didn’t do nothing. I reckon she’s just got tired o’ carrying such a powerful heavy burden for so long all by herselfs. Mind, she ain’t told me everything, and I still don’t know exactly what she’s planning on doing, but they’s a lot o’ bits she let slip.”

“Then by all means, ‘Mr. Mule,’ you tell me those bits. And shorten it up a bit, if’n you please. I don’t mean to be sitting here halfway into the night.”

So the Mule told her.

The mule and pegasus (said the Mule) stood on a vast plain of ice, small and alone. To their north rose the Eiglophian mountains, bare and black beneath a twilit sky glittering with faint stars. Among the peaks strange winds whistled and howled, lunging to and fro in the high mountain valleys like caged wolves chafing in captivity, and at times one of the winds would break free, rushing down the slopes of the mountains to the ice below in a raging katabatic gale that threw great clouds of ice dust and snow into the sky. Then, by degrees, the air would still and the ice would settle, and silence would return to the wastes.

The Mule was the first to break that silence. He had been eyeing the scene of desolation before them with a critical eye, his scraggly tail swishing to and fro, and at length he turned to his employer and demanded, "Why's it allus have to be so grim?

Sassaflash shrugged. "This is what the world is like, beyond Celestia and Luna's care. Elder powers rule these wastes, and they do not appreciate beauty or life--at least, not beauty or life as we understand them."

"Right." The Mule shuffled his hooves in the glacial firn, trying to ignore the hunger that had begun to gnaw at his stomach. "And...you're fixin' to overthrow 'em?"

"I believe we have established that by this point, yes," responded the Dark Lord, with a little flick of her tail. "I do not intend to leave a power vacuum behind or let the wastes creep in on Equestria. My intention is to outdo the Princesses, not to destroy all they have created." The pegasus paused, and for a moment a shadow crept across her face. "Although, of course, some destruction may be--will be--inevitable. Chaos will not bow to Order without a fight. Which is the point, of course, but still..." The pegasus eyed her companion for a moment as though waiting for something, her ears folded back against her head. When she received no response, she gave a short, barking laugh.

"Ha! I speak of plans and schemes--and here we are, adrift and alone, surrounded by hundreds of leagues of ice and rock." She shook her head. "Enough. Come; we must press onward, Mr. Mule."

"Yes, Miss Sassaflash."

“That was the first bit,” said the Mule, “not that I knowed it then. I figgered she was just being mysterious.”

“She was being mysterious, Ponyville, and if you think she wasn’t, you’ve been spending too much time around her,” said the Dodge Junction Mule. The wind was colder, now, and wilder, tugging at the shawl wrapped around the two mules and sending uneasy ripples through the grass. The mare shivered, and then rose to her hooves, the wooden planks of the stoop creaking as she moved, and gestured for her husband to follow her. Looking back at the waving grass, the stalks still glimmering with the light of fireflies and glowsnails, she said, “Come on, we’d best be getting indoors. There’s a storm coming up the valley--a regular howler, too, or I’m a zoog. What was the first bit?”

“Why, ‘Chaos,’” said the Mule, mild surprise on his homely face. He reached up to take the hoof his wife had extended, and pulled himself up on to his own hooves. “Thankee kindly. It weren’t clear?”

“Clear as mud, and that’s a fact. What about ‘Chaos bowing to Order?’ What’d she mean by that?”

Her husband hesitated a bit before answering. “Y’see, I ain’t quite clear on that myself, even now. I asked her about it, and the most I could figger from what she said was that when she said ‘Chaos,’ she meant some manner o’ olden devil, that the Princesses had fought in the before times, and that they’d fight it again if it came back, sooner’n blink at you. Not that it can come back, mind you. The Princesses done sealed it away, Miss Sassaflash said, and it’d take more magic now than the two on ‘em have together to break it free again. She said it had other names, too, that I might know. ‘Tarakhe.’ ‘Discord.’ ‘Demens Deitas.’” He shook his head. “Can’t say as how I ever heard tell o’ any on ‘em, though. You?”

“No.” A pause. “Wait, maybe I have. There’s a flower that grows in the swamps near the Canterhorn--a little yellow one. It’s called Mage Starswirl’s Wort, but my ma had a different name for it. ‘Chase-Discord,’ she called it. She told me that wicked things, things made by Discord, didn’t like it, and when I asked her who Discord was, she told me she didn’t know--that it was just what her own ma had told her, and her ma’s ma before.” The Dodge Junction Mule’s ears swiveled back, and her brow knitted. “Discord. Isn’t a nice name, is it?”

“Nope,” agreed the Mule. “But anyhow, that was just the beginning. Later on, she tole me more. Lots more…”

The night waned swiftly, dawning to another of the long, cold days of the Hippoborean summer. Difficult as distances were to judge in this featureless wasteland, Sassaflash had feared that the mountains--and any ruins therein--might prove to be much farther away than they appeared, but fortunately the reverse proved to be the case, and by midday the two equines were picking their slow, careful way across one of the glaciers grinding ponderously along through the rifts between the peaks. After traversing a particularly difficult stretch of ice, heaved up into a crumbling, rubble-flecked ridge by the immense pressures grinding and pushing within the glacier’s heart, the Dark Lord paused to catch her breath, looking out over the barren vista around them. She started, and raised a hoof, shading narrowed eyes. Turning and gesturing to her minion, a little ways behind her, she pointed wordlessly up at the nearest peak, rearing high into the sky and flecked with remote patches of blue-white ice.

At first the Mule saw nothing--just the bleak, forbidding sight of another exhausting climb ahead of them. Then he noticed a narrow, wavering discontinuity along the mountain’s flanks, as though a thin slice of the mountain had been pared away from its middle. And there--yes. Strange, distant little towers, off-kilter and stunted, rising up at regular intervals along the winding cut.

“A Unicornian road,” smiled Sassaflash. “Our way has just become significantly easier, Mr. Mule. The glacier will have ground away the old roads and settlements in the valley, of course, along with the valley itself, ” here she gave a short, sharp stamp on the ice underhoof, “but the mountain ways, and any dwellings there, may well be intact.”

Bone-weary and cold as they were, the mule and pegasus soon made their way to the base of the road, or what was left of it. The glacier had evidently run higher up along the mountain’s flanks in the past, for the lowest twenty yards of road had been sheared completely away, with only a few scattered stones here and there to attest to its presence. The way was not very difficult, though, and before long they had clambered their way up to a reasonably intact portion of the ancient course.

“And by the by," the Mule added, his ears flicking upright as he turned to face his wife, "them Unicornians knew how to build things right. Mountain stonework ain't easy; the stones gots to cling, sort o' like, not just lie up atop each other, and if you is building in a place that gets warm come summer, well...You'd best think real careful about how the blocks is supported, and what they's supporting, 'cause some o' that mortar's a-going to crack in spring and fall with the freezing and the thawing and all. But the Unicornians, they didn't use no mortar! Them stones on that old road was carved neat as neat, so that they all fit together like one o' them jigsaw puzzles and didn't need nothing but their own selves to stay in place. ‘Sickle-oppian,’ Miss Sassaflash called it. I reckon--"

“Get on with it, you old coot,” smiled the Dodge Junction Mule.

“Alright, alright. So anyhow, we was on this old road the likes o’ which I ain’t never seen afore…”

Though exposed, the road along the mountainside was still sound--surprisingly so, considering its immense age. There were patches that had been wiped away by ancient avalanches or were just missing, with no hint as to what had become of them, but on the whole the way was clear enough. Here and there on the mountainside, sometimes just beside the road but sometimes far above or below it, tucked away on distant ledges overlooking hundred yard drops, stood rough towers of stacked stones covered with odd glyphs that the Dark Lord refused to translate, while at more regular intervals along the path little alcoves had been carved into the mountain’s face. Some were vacant, while others still held the weathered remnants of statues and icons backed by detailed bas reliefs. As Sassaflash and the Mule traveled further up the mountain, they passed stony unicorn warlords, dressed in strange regalia and standing against a backdrop of ponies attacking one another in a forest on the flanks of what was unmistakably Voormithadreth itself--a unicorn with a broken horn, bowing her head in sadness in front of a scene of four priests and four warriors standing in two opposing lines before Voormithadreth--a pegasus, lying on a bed of carved reeds and clutching a flail with Voormithadreth rising above the horizon in the distance--another broken-horned unicorn, this time rearing in triumph beneath the watchful bulk of Voormithadreth.

The great four-peaked volcano was in every carving, every scene, a constant and oppressive presence looming over the history of the northlands. The Mule would have liked to ask Sassaflash about the recurring motif, but it seemed unsafe, somehow, to discuss the mountain, and the Thing still sprawled beneath it. Not when such things were so near. Not when they might be listening.

Rain pattered on the windows of the mules’ cabin, darkened by the fading of the day and by the thick, churning storm clouds plunging and rising in the sky in slow, tattered sweeps like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Warm candlelight filled the little living room within, shining off the rough floorboards, the spiral rug, and the colorful crazy quilt hung on the wall for decoration. At the table, the Mule raised his head from his bowl of oats and grass, and said, “Sh’ nnshtd, ‘ ‘shked R--”

“Swallow, Ponyville. Goodness, the way you’re eating, you’d think that was real food. It’s not going to help you out there, you know.”

“Shrry.” The Mule swallowed. “I know, I know. But like I was saying, instead o’ asking about them pictures o’ Voormi’s Addre--Voormithadreth, I asked her about the unicorn with the broke horn, who they done made so many statue carvings of. And what do you think she tole me?”

The Dodge Junction Mule smiled a patient smile, and pushed back her own empty bowl. “I couldn’t imagine.”

“She tole me that it weren’t no single unicorn at all. The broke horn, she said, was a metaphor--a metaphor for something real important to her plan.” He paused. “She also tole me she was surprised I knew the word ‘metaphor,’ but that ain’t here nor there.”

Frigid winds bit and howled at the stones of the mountain, and bit even more fiercely at the two travelers, shivering as the ancient Unicornian road led them ever higher. The Dark Lord Sassaflash turned to her minion, and in answer to his question, said, “A curse, Mr. Mule. It is a metaphor for a curse--one of the oldest in the world, older than Celestia and Luna, older than ponykind itself. Magic carries a price, and Unicornia was steeped in magic. They knew that price, and paid it every second of their lives.” She winced at a particularly fierce blast of wind, cold and cruel as a cockatrice’s stare. “Hurry. If I read the waystones right, there was an old watchtower not too much further along this road. There may be some remnants left of it that we could use for shelter.”

“I wouldn’t mind a bit o’ shelter right about now, and that’s the truth,” said the Mule. Food, too, he thought, but said nothing. No point in bringing up what they couldn’t have, even if the hunger was beginning to get difficult to bear. “But what kind o’ price? I ain’t never heard no unicorn talk about having to pay some price for their magic spells.”

The Dark Lord gave a derisive snort. “Of course not. The unicorns of today deal in nothing but petty cantrips and lackluster charms--none of the old magic. None of the deep magic. Their ancestors, though, wielded power to rival Celestia and Luna themselves. Even the Hearth’s Warming Eve story, distorted by the passage of time as it is, preserves the memory of that might: ‘The unicorns demanded tribute likewise, in return for magically bringing forth day and night.'

"But with that power came a cost. Magic is the imposition of unreality on reality, Mr. Mule; it is the act of forcing reality to assume a state other than the one it would naturally take. But reality does not like to be forced. It pushes back. The greater the magic, the greater the misfortune of the one who cast it. Small spells, the kinds used by unicorns today, yield small bits of bad luck or mischance--a beloved possession may break, or a minor plan may fall through--while the greater spells, the kinds that the ancient Unicornians brought to bear on the world around them...Those bring greater evils. The deaths of loved ones. The collapse of dynasties. The destruction of all one could hold dear. The cosmos inevitably takes its revenge. That is the ‘broken horn’ of the Unicornians. That is magic’s curse.” She sighed. “And that is--or was--how I would have overthrown Celestia and Luna, and claimed Equestria for my own.”

The Dark Lord’s gaze followed the Mule’s pointing hoof, and then her mouth curved into a small, fierce little smile of satisfaction. They had made their way around one of the mountain’s outflung stone buttresses, and now, on the other side, they could clearly see a tower--or the remnants of one, at least--in the distance.

“And do you believe her?” asked the Dodge Junction Mule.

The Mule, who had been peering out through the storm-rattled windowpane into the thundering darkness beyond, turned to face his wife. “I can’t say as how I ever heard tell o’ reality fighting back or taking revenge. But on the other hoof, she’s been right about an awful lot o’ things already. Maybe this is one on ‘em. Anyhow, you know the rest; arter that we was able to find some old cloth hangings in the tower for warmth, and they was a heap o’ scrolls written on reed paper which was sort o’ edible, kind of like. ‘Tweren’t pizen, anyhow. Then she took first watch--said her dreams had been bothering her recent, and she didn’t fancy a-going to sleep right off. I tole her she could come here when she did go to sleep, if’n she wanted to. She knows the way, now, and they ain’t a-going to be no nightmares here.” He paused. “You don’t mind, do you, Dodgy?”

“Hrmph. No, I reckon not. And y’all won’t starve, leastwise,” muttered the mare. “But did she ever say what she meant about using this whole business with the cosmos and magic to overthrow the Princesses? I don’t see it.”

The Mule shook his head. “She did say as how it had something to do with what she did back in the Hollow Shades to her sister, draining her magic and all, but other’n that, nothing.” He trotted back over to their table, and eased himself back into his seat. Folding his forehooves on the tabletop, he looked across at his wife and chuckled. “Even when she says a lot, she don’t say much at all, do she? She’s planning to kill Tsathoggy, she’s planning something with this sealed-off Discord monster, she’s planning something with magic-draining, she’s planning something with reality not liking magic--and somehow all them plans go together into one big plan.”

Rain hissed and washed against the wind-whipped grass outside, and droplets drummed against the cottage’s windows. The Dodge Junction Mule’s ears snapped upright as a particularly loud thundercrack burst somewhere not too far away, and she frowned. “Kill a God, steal some magic, get reality mad, and mess with a demon. Steal some magic, kill a God, mess with a demon, get reality…”

Another crack of thunder. The Mule’s wife started, but not from the sound of thunder. As the rolling echoes of the blast faded away, the Dodge Junction Mule repeated, “Steal some magic, kill a God, mess with a demon, get reality mad...” Her ears drooped and her eyes widened. A look of dawning comprehension--and horror--slowly crept across her face. “Steal all of Its magic from a God, killing it. Feed that magic to an imprisoned demon, freeing it. Force Celestia and Luna to fight that demon, draining every last bit of magic and good luck they have. And then...and then…”

Thunder rolled. Lightning flashed. The door to the mules’ cottage burst wide, wind and rain swirling in, and there in the entrance, her cloak billowing wildly around her and her face obscured in shadow, stood the Dark Lord. She raised her head, a grim sadness in her eyes, and said,

“And then would have come the rise of the Dark Lord Sassaflash.”

Author's Note

A bit short this time, but hopefully 'twill serve. Once again, my very great thanks to The Masked Ferret for her very helpful suggestions and editing of this chapter.

Chapter 12 Author's Note

Just a quick note; the following is, along with 'Sash's encounter with Tsathoggua and two upcoming scenes, one of the reasons that I changed this story's rating from E to T. It's grim, and somewhat gory. Just...fair warning, and my apologies if this sours you on the tale. As before, many, many thanks to both themaskedferret and my mother for their excellent suggestions on the piece.

Chapter 12

It would be some hours yet before the Sun dipped down into the boreal night, and some hours before the Mule and his wife, sheltering from a dreamstorm in their cabin in a green valley in the Dreamlands, would piece together the entirety of the Dark Lord’s scheme. For now that realization waited unrealized, and the Mule and the Dark Lord still stood exposed on an ancient Unicornian road, swift winds slicing through their fur and cutting cold against their skin. From this high perch, clinging like insects to the flanks of the mountain, the world opened in vastness around them. The sky was immense, the ice sheet was limitless, and the mountains and stones and winds spread wide and wild beyond their view.

The path stretched far out at one point, following an outflung buttress of stone that pushed out, stark and sharp, from the main bulk of the mountain like the prow of a ship. At its tip the road angled sharply and doubled back along the other side of the ridge, while at the sharp turning there rose a simple cairn, the rocks and pebbles making up the tower balancing one atop the other. As they reached the turning the Dark Lord, who had been talking to--or rather, at--the Mule, finished, “And that is--or was--how I would have overthrown Celestia and Luna, and claimed Equestria for my own.”

The Mule pondered this, tail swishing to and fro behind him and brow furrowed in thought as he plodded onward. He raised his head, about to speak, when suddenly his eyes widened and he lifted a hoof, pointing ahead of them. “Miss Sassaflash, look!”
The Dark Lord’s gaze followed the Mule’s pointing hoof, and then her mouth curved into a small, fierce little smile of satisfaction. Now that the intervening stone ridge was no longer in the way, they could clearly see a tower--or the remnants of one, at least--in the distance. Shelter. Sassaflash hurried forward, and then gave an undignified squawk of surprise, flapping her wings and stumbling a bit before she regained her balance. The Mule’s eyes widened. “Miss Sassaflash! You alright?” He stepped forward--and then gave a sharp gasp of shock himself as he rounded the corner, his legs weakening beneath him and very nearly sending him flopping over in an undignified heap on the road.

Long ago, when he had been just a colt back in his old home in the Foal Mountains, a traveling caravan of merchants and salesponies had come trundling up the worn, weatherbeaten road to the Mule’s little mountain town, bringing brightly-patterned cloths, strange and enticing fruits, high-quality ironmongery from skilled artisans in the flatlands, and other such goods to trade with the mountain folk. While their parents browsed and bartered and haggled, the foals of the townsfolk and merchants played together, the travelers glad to be able to rest their legs and the mountain foals excited to see fresh faces. Among the travelers was a little unicorn filly, a thin, shy thing who hung back from the other foals and chewed nervously on her braids--and the first unicorn that the Mule had ever seen. As it happened, she had never seen a mule before, and their mutual curiosity soon overcame their timidity. She told him about magic, and showed him a few simple spells, amazing him with hovering pebbles and light shining out of thin air. One spell in particular had entranced him. Squinting in concentration, the unicorn had shone a thin beam from her horn, sending a perfect line of light shooting out across the clearing and into the dusk-darkened woods beyond. When she moved her head the distant spot of violet light had swung to and fro, shifting across the far-off tree trunks in impossibly fast sweeps as she tilted her horn through the slightest of angles. It was uncanny how quickly and effortlessly the tiny pinpoint of light shifted position, and the Mule had felt almost dizzy watching it, as though, in that moment, he was standing at a fulcrum around which the entire world was pivoting.

He felt that now, but stronger--so much stronger. One step forward, and the entire world had seemed to upend itself around him--but the rocks were the same. The sky was the same. Yet somehow, everything had changed. The Sun, which before had been a blazing star shining in futility in the void, was suddenly a reminder of Celestia’s love for ponykind again, glowing with warmth in the vault of heaven. In the rocks and crevices of the trail, which had hitherto seemed so bare and lifeless, the Mule noticed small lichens and mosses, spreading beautiful greens and greys across the rounded stones. The carved cobbles underhoof were not alien and disturbing, but elegant in their artistic strangeness--and even that strangeness was not so strange, for looking more closely the Mule saw that some of the stones had been carefully shaped into rounded but recognizable hearts. Ponies had lived here, and lived as ponies lived, in happiness and contentment. The blue, cloudless sky was beautiful, not barren. The wind was brisk, not cruel. Nothing was different. Everything was different.

The Mule rolled to a halt, eyes wide and mouth agape. “What was that?”

His employer stopped, and looked back at him, a light sparkling in her amber eyes. “A relief, is it not?”

“Yes, but--what was it?”

A smile. “Look at Voormithadreth.”

The Mule turned, then looked back at the pegasus. “I can’t. When we gone around that corner, them rocks done blocked it.”

“Precisely!” The Dark Lord gave a little flutter of her wings. “You can’t see it. The burden is lifted--or lightened, at any rate. Oh, it can still see us,” she added, in response to the Mule’s unasked question. “A few yards of stone are not sufficient to block the mind of the Thing beneath that mountain. But before we could have turned our heads at any moment and glimpsed it. We were always a fraction of a second away from perceiving it, and having a part of it enter into our minds. We might not have done so, but we could have done so, and the possibility was what mattered. Now, though, with every step we take along this road, we increase the time separating us and a glimpse of the mountain, and with that distance we decrease our awareness of the Thing beneath.”

After pondering this for a moment, the Mule said, hesitantly, “Does that mean we ought to go back somewheres where we can see it, so we ain’t--ain’t blinding ourselves, as you might say? Only I don’t much fancy--”

“No, no.” Sassaflash shook her head. “That would be very imprudent. We are mortal beings, Mr. Mule. We were not meant to be aware of the mind of a God. To expose ourselves to It indefinitely, even at this distance, would drive us mad, just as surely as I was driven mad in the depths of Voormithadreth. It is better that we know It can see us, without feeling that It can see us.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Only, knowing that It can still see us kinda ruined that cheerful feeling.”

“My apologies, Mr. Mule,” said the Dark Lord Sassaflash drily, “for not maintaining your state of blissful ignorance.” She hesitated, as if unsure what to say next, then shook her head irritably. “But this is foolish. That ruin may provide the shelter we need, and here we stand in the cold and wind, yammering senselessly at one another like the common ponies in the marketplace. Come. We must make haste.”

“Yes, Miss Sassaflash.”

Spurred on by the promise of shelter from the high Hippoborean winds, the two soon neared the ruin, clinging in craggy disrepair to the mountainside. Half of the structure was entirely missing, having been dragged down by an ancient landslide into a deep ravine, but the rest seemed sound enough, rising up in a crumbling, ice-glazed half-cylinder from the side of the road. Twin unicorn statues, weathered by whirling ice dust into shapeless golems, stood guard on either side of the small byway that led to the watchtower’s gate, while the heavy wooden door of the tower itself still stood in place, as solid and strong as if it had been carved and set in place only the day before. The same could not be said for the iron lock on the door, which cracked into sharp-edged fragments at a buck from the Mule’s hind hooves. With a sullen creak, the door swung inward into the darkness of the tower’s interior.

Stepping inside, the two travelers found a room that had been left surprisingly untouched by the passage of eons. Curiously carved wooden tables, low and long, stretched along the walls of the entryway, while deeper in the murk shadowed things like wine racks rose to the ceiling, rows of cubbyholes criss-crossing their faces, and the crumpled, fragmented remnants of tapestries lay on the floor, half-covered with a fine drift of powdery snow. The Dark Lord trotted over to investigate the racks, while the Mule inspected the tapestries. Although some of the fabric had apparently rotted before the most intense part of the freeze had finally set in, much of it was incredibly well-preserved, lying as it had in cold, dry darkness with nothing to disturb it. He nodded a nod of quiet satisfaction, and turning, called out, “Miss Sassaflash! They’s some cloth hangings here that we can use for blankets!” Receiving no response, he trotted over to the pegasus, standing at the back of the room and staring up in silence at the racks. “Miss Sassaflash?”

The Dark Lord did not turn. In a quiet, awed voice, her wings hanging slack at her sides, she murmured, “Look, Mr. Mule. Look.”

He looked. “I don’t see nothing. Just some wooden tube things stuck in them holes in the--”

“Scrolls.”

The Mule tilted his head. “Beg pardon?”

“They are scrolls, Mr. Mule, scrolls! Preserved, intact, Unicornian scrolls!” The pegasus whipped around, extending one quivering wing to point up at the wooden stand beside her, and gasped out, “This--this rack alone is priceless. Imagine the secrets hidden here! Look before you, and behold the mystic knowledge of an elder civilization, lost--and now found!” Turning back to the line of scrolls, she reached out a trembling hoof, and gingerly slid one of the long rolls of wood and paper out of its cubby. The paper did not crack, the wood did not crumble. “Imagine, Mr. Mule! We are the first to see these writings in nearly five thousand years! Oh, I should have come here years ago. I should have known looters would not dare venture so near to Voormithadreth. Only I--only we have so dared! And now we are rewarded!” Holding her breath, the pegasus carefully, slowly unrolled the paper, holding it up against the rack so that the fading light shining through the chamber’s open door fell on the aged glyphs. “I will translate.” Peering closely at the characters, the Dark Lord began to speak.

“And so...Sweet Wind, her head--no, her chest--heaving--with feeling, or perhaps emotion, threw herself into the--arms? Wings? of Iron Crest, the handsome--guard, and as she gazed into his coal black eyes, she whispered--she whispered…”

The Dark Lord stood staring at the scroll, an unreadable expression on her face. A dead silence fell, for which the Mule privately felt he deserved a great deal of credit, considering how hard he was finding it to hold back the braying peal of laughter swelling in his chest. Finally, he managed to squeak out, “Well miss, you know they wasn’t librarians here. They would’a been reading to wile away the hours, not to get them some book-learnin’, and--”

“I do not wish to discuss it, Mr. Mule.”

“Why, of a night when I don’t got nothing better to do, even I likes a good romance novel, and them guardponies here wasn’t too different from us, so I reckon--”

“I said I do not wish to discuss it!”

He considered pushing the point, but decided against it. There was a decidedly wild look in the Dark Lord’s eyes. “Yes, Miss Sassaflash.”

“Good. Let us continue to look for supplies, and put this...this travesty behind us. Glory of Unicornia, my left alula!” The Dark Lord stomped angrily off towards the stairs leading to the tower’s second story, and the Mule, after looking after her for a moment with a thoughtful expression on his homely face, turned and tucked a few scrolls into the crook of his hoof for a pile of supplies by the door. Might do them good to carry a little silliness with them, even if the only one who could read it would, almost certainly, refuse to do so.

The exploration of the rest of the tower took little time. There was little left to explore; much of the upper portion of the structure had collapsed in the distant past, possibly during the same upheaval that brought down the rear half of the watchtower, and the stairs leading upwards were either blocked with rubble or ended abruptly in thousand-foot drops. There were plenty of wooden furnishings and furniture remaining in the tower, though, preserved by the cold, and with them as kindling and the worn tapestries as bedding, the two travelers were able to make themselves reasonably comfortable for the night. They even had food, of a sort; some of the romance novellas in the scroll rack had been written on papyrus, and they proved edible enough, if not exactly palatable. As they sat by the crackling fire, smoke and steam rising from the flames, the Mule looked up from a particularly tasteless--in both senses of the word--novella detailing, the Dark Lord had told him with a contemptuous sniff, the adventures of a young mare and the vampire fairy weregriffon who loved her, and said, “Earlier, you said reality don’t like being forced. That it takes revenge. You’re talking about it like...like it can think, like they’s some mind out there that’s a-watching us. That ain’t so, though, right?” A pause. “...Right?”

The Dark Lord made no immediate response, dourly gnawing on the chronicles of a mare named Spring Blossom who had been so unfortunate as to have gained the affections of three different handsome, wealthy stallions, and couldn’t choose between them. To the Mule’s chagrin, Sassaflash had refused to tell him which one she ended up with. She swallowed, and looked back at the Mule. “Wrong.

“I have told you of the Great Old Ones, Mr. Mule--Tsathoggua, Cthulhu, and others, slumbering in the dark places of the world or stalking blasted wastes beyond Celestia and Luna’s guardianship. Now I will tell you of another order of beings, as far beyond the Great Old Ones as the Great Old Ones are beyond us. They are called, collectively, the Outer Gods, and while the Great Old Ones have immense power over reality, the Outer Gods, in a very real sense, are reality. It is by Their will that Tsathoggua and Its ilk wield such tremendous power, and They resent creatures like us, who use the power of magic without Their blessing. To Them, we are nothing more than crawling parasites, mindlessly feeding on a power that is not ours to possess. Lice.”

The Mule raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t no louse.”

“To Them you are.”

“But to me I ain’t!” The Mule propped himself up on his forehooves. “I don’t reckon it matters what They thinks. I reckon I’m worth something, and I don’t see as how Them thinking otherwise makes a particle o’ difference.”

The pegasus gave him an odd look, her head tilted and one ear bent to the side. “They wield great power, Mr. Mule. Infinite power, in fact. We only exist at all because They are patient and timeless, and the millennia that ponykind has existed are, to Them, just the fractions of a second between Their notice of us and Their annihilation of us.”

“That don’t signify.” With a shake of his head, the Mule continued, “Princess Celestia’s mighty powerful too, and she thinks ponyfolk is worth something--but that ain’t why I matter. I matter ‘cause I thinks I matters.”

For a time Sassaflash made no response, simply staring at him with her brow knitted and her tail twitching to and fro behind her. She seemed to be trying to parse some peculiarly complex puzzle, and not having much luck at it. Finally, she turned and looked into the fire. With a sigh, she said, “Well. You have a strange way of looking at worth, Mr. Mule, but not an unpleasant one. It is a shame the cosmos does not respect your views...But enough of this. The hour is late, and we have a long day ahead of us, if we are to stand a chance at finding some relic of Unicornian magic to help us before we succumb. Get some sleep; I will keep first watch. My dreams of late have been...troublesome, and I confess I do not relish the prospect of closing my eyes.”

With an enormous yawn, the Mule said, “Don’t mind if I do. But you’s welcome in our home in the Dreamlands any time you want, Miss Sassaflash. You knows the way now, and they ain’t a-going to be no nightmares there.”

The Dark Lord smiled, but said nothing, and after waiting a few moments longer, the Mule turned over, hunkered down under one of the salvaged wall hangings, and slowly drifted off to sleep.

And Dreamed.

Ash stirred fitfully in the embers of the campfire, blown about by the draught whistling in through the broken door. The two sleeping figures on either side of the cinders were barely visible in the dim twilight of the northern night, cloth wrapped tightly around them against the cold. One of them stirred, and muttered something in her sleep--then, with a gasping intake of breath, she jerked upright, throwing the cover off her back with a violent sweep of her wing and rising to her hooves. She glared across the campfire at her companion, and snapped, “I fail to see how it makes any difference!”

The Mule’s eyes slid open, and he lifted himself up, meeting Sassaflash‘s glare with a cool, steady gaze. “I reckon not.”

“You knew my aspirations, my goals. Tell me, what part of ‘Take over the world’ was unclear to you? Did you interpret ‘Dark Lord’ as a little-known synonym for ‘pastry chef’ or ‘greengrocer?’ When have I ever been anything but open about my ambitions?”

“You ain’t never been real open about much o’ anything.” Clomping over to the pile of kindling they had heaped up the evening before, the Mule took a sharp-edged fragment of a broken chair up in his mouth. The Dark Lord tensed, then relaxed as the old creature tossed the wood on to the fire. He turned to look at her again. “T’ain’t that, though. It’s that you’s still fixing to go through with it, if we get outen this alive. I knowed you was planning something real bad, and this is real bad, but--”

“Enough.” Sassaflash held up a hoof. “There is no need for you to say anything further. The fact that you consider my hopes for Equestria’s future ‘bad’ communicates things quite well enough, thank you.” She stalked away from the fire, then turned, a shadow among shadows. Her eyes burned in the darkness. “I want to give immortality to Equestria, Mr. Mule. I want to banish death. I want to do what Celestia will not. Is that ‘bad?’”

The Mule shook his head. “I don’t like it. Like I said afore, ain’t you never stopped to think that maybe they’s a reason Celestia don’t do all them things you’re fixing to do? Ain’t you never--”

“Of course I have!” Tossing her mane angrily, the Dark Lord continued, “And the answer is quite obvious: cowardice and selfishness. Celestia knows that if she used her power, if she truly did all she could do, her life would be forfeit. The cosmos itself, angered by her use of such powerful magic, would bend itself to her destruction, and she would be crushed.”

“Can’t say as how I blame her for choosing not to, then,” said the Mule, and gave the dwindling fire a poke with a stick, sending sparks spiraling up into the chill air. Sassaflash snorted.

“Can you not? She was faced with a choice: die, and let us live, or live, and let us die. She chose to let us die. All of us, over and over again, countless times down through the millennia. The wails of every mother who lost her foal, the tears of children for their parents, the gaping hole left behind by the passing of dear friends--all of that falls on her head. She wears our misery as her crown, and her throne is made of bones.”

Dropping the stick from his mouth, the Dark Lord’s minion replied, “Even if you’s right, though, wouldn’t you be just the same? I still reckon Celestia’s a good pony, but even if she ain’t, I don’t see how it makes much difference whether we got an everliving ruler named Celestia or an everliving ruler named Sassaflash.”

“No?” The Dark Lord stepped forward, firelight gleaming in her flaxen mane. “The difference, Mr. Mule, is that I would not be everliving. I would choose differently than Celestia did, and be crushed by the wrath of the Outer Gods--the wrath of Yog-Sothoth, the Gate and Key, the Most Prolonged of Life, the One in All and the All in One--so that everypony else would never have to suffer the agony of losing somepony they love. Never again!” The last words came out in a snarl. “I would establish a dynasty of necromancer queens. Each of us would step forward in turn, maintaining the immortality of our subjects, and each of us in turn would be cut down so that they might live.”

The Mule started to speak, then stopped, his eyes widening and his ears flopping limply down as the full strength of what she had said hit him. Staring off into space, he murmured, “A sacrifice. You’s fixing to sacrifice yourself.”

Sassaflash nodded. “Rem acu tetigisti. Exactly,” she hurriedly translated, before the Mule could ask what the ancient words meant, and lowered herself back down beside the fire, now crackling and flickering again under the Mule’s ministrations. Reaching out a hoof, she drew one of the tattered tapestries back up over her shoulder, shivering in the cold of the Hippoborean night. “And for that sacrifice--for those sacrifices--nopony would ever need to know loss again.”

The Mule blinked. “But I just--but why? I ain’t never heard you say a kind word for other ponies! ‘Rabble,’ you calls ‘em. ‘Fools.’ I’m jiggered if I can see why you’d do so much for them.”

The Dark Lord made a contemptuous snorting noise in the back of her throat. “For them? I have suffered no change of heart, believe me. I would do this thing not for them, but against the pain. Pain like that should never exist, even in their blank, fluffy-headed little minds. Nopony deserves that.”

The Mule said nothing, staring into the flames as he tried to wrap his head around all that the Dark Lord had said. Eventually he looked up. “It’s too big. I can’t think about it all at onct.”

“And yet it has the simplicity and elegance of a mathematical theorem: pare away the things whose loss would cause no pain, to save that which would. I am...disposable. Sweetie Belle is in awe of me, but nothing more. Crowded Parchment--you’ve not met him, and I am not at liberty to say what, precisely, he is--has seen many ponies before me die, and knows better by this point than to form attachments. The rabbit, Angel, is a business associate only. As for my sister and father--well. My father has never forgiven me, and my sister loves a Sassaflash who died long ago, though she doesn’t yet realize it. And then, of course, there’s you.” She hesitated, a shadow of doubt flickering across her face, and looked up at the Mule.

“And then there’s me,” agreed the Mule.

There was a long moment of silence, the two looking across the fire at one another. Finally, the Mule smiled. “You got one friend, Miss Sassaflash.”

“I see.” She considered this in silence for some moments. Then she drew the salvaged tapestry tightly about herself, her face turned away from the Mule, and said, her voice subdued, “Well. We should rest. Dawn is yet some hours off, and we will need all our strength on the morrow.” Almost as an afterthought, and so quietly that the Mule nearly didn’t hear it, she murmured, “I am sorry.”

“She ain’t evil. She’s wrong, but she ain’t evil.” The Mule paced back and forth, dripping rainwater on the rug as his shadow danced across the far wall in the light of the room’s oil lamp. His wife sat at the table, watching him with a dubious eye.

“I don’t know, Ponyville. Setting an ancient demon of chaos free and siccing it on the Princesses seems real evil to me.”

“That’s just it, though!” He turned and stamped a hoof on the floor, and the Dodge Junction Mule raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t you go getting dramatic on my good rug, Ponyville. It wasn’t easy to stitch that up.” Raising a hoof, she gestured for him to come to the table. “You sit yourself down and dry yourself off; you’re getting all worked up. What’s just it?”

“That’s the problem. She ain’t evil, but the things she’s fixing to do is. It’s just...If she was evil and doing evil things, it’d be simple; do anything to stop her. If she was good and doing good things, they wouldn’t be no problem neither.” He trotted over to his wife, and at a sharp glance from her picked up the proffered towel and began to dry himself off. “But a real good pony fixing on doing something real bad...What do I do?”

The Dodge Junction Mule frowned. “Ponyville, you know durn well what you’ve got to do. Stop her anyhow. She may mean well, but that isn’t going to make a particle of difference to the ponies that get hurt when she sets this monster free.”

“I know.” A sigh. “She’s a-thinking about this like it’s a ‘rithmatic problem, that’s what’s wrong. She sees ponies living on, forever and ever and ever, and that’s such a good thing that she thinks it cancels out the bad things that’ll happen at first. But it don’t work that way. Ponies ain’t numbers.”

Rain pattered in the dark outside, a calm remnant of the storm that had torn through the valley earlier. The Mule’s wife tilted her head. “Thinking of ponies as numbers isn’t something that good ponies normally do. Are you sure you’re not wrong about her? I gave her a chance, like you asked--took her in, was real hospitable, and tried to see the good in her, even when she was talking about raising the dead and killing Gods and I don’t know what all. But this...how do you even know she’s telling the truth? She might just be spinning a story about what she plans to do after taking over the world, making herself out to be a great hero so you won’t stop helping her. She could just be in it for the power. She probably is.”

“She could be,” agreed the Mule. He absently poked at the tabletop, staring at the woodgrain with more intensity than the woodgrain probably deserved. “She surely could be.”

Neither mule said anything, the Ponyville Mule lost in thought and his wife watching him, waiting. A droplet of water splashed on the rough floor, falling from a crevice in the roof, and the rain murmured softly to itself outside.

Then the Mule looked up, and shook his head. “No. I seen good in her, Dodgy. I seen it. She’s almost ashamed o’ it, and she keeps it buried real deep, but it’s there and it’s behind everything she does. When she sees clear, when she ain’t blinded no more, she will do the right thing. No matter how hard it is, and no matter what’s standing in her way, she’ll make things right, and they ain’t no power on heaven or earth that’ll stop her.”

The Dodge Junction Mule met her husband’s gaze and held it. “You really believe in her?”

“I do.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, and then with a sigh, she nodded. “Alright. I believe you. I don’t see it myself, but then I don’t always see things as clear as you. If you really trust her, then I’ll trust her too. For your sake.”

“Hnnn…”

The Mule blinked, opening his eyes to the piercing white light of dawn. That wasn’t what had woken him, though. There had been a noise like a distressed insect, a kind of whine or moan.

“HHNNnnnnhnhnn… Nnno…”

He turned. The noise had come from Sassaflash, still lying curled up in her cloth hanging and hugging it to herself in her sleep. She whined again, and drew a ragged, whimpering breath, shivering beneath her ersatz coverlet. “Must be having night-terrors,” the Mule muttered to himself, and gently nudged the Dark Lord on the shoulder. “Miss Sassaflash? It’s morning, miss. Shouldn’t we ought to be on our way?”

The pegasus’ eyes snapped open, pupils dilated. She stared unseeing at the Mule for a fraction of a second, then snapped upright in one scrambling motion, casting the tapestry to one side. Her ears pinned to her head and her tail lashing, she demanded, “Worrywort! Where is the--tea. I need my tea. I need it.”

The Mule blinked. “We ain’t got none, remember? Them things from down up under that mountain done ate all our things. They ain’t none left.”

“But I need it! I have to have it! If I don’t, I’ll--she’ll--” The pegasus stopped, and with a visible effort of will wrenched herself back under control. She shut her eyes and drew a deep, measured breath, her limbs still slightly trembling beneath her. When she opened her eyes again, the earlier frenzy was gone. “My apologies, Mr. Mule. I--You are quite right. The worrywort is gone, as you say. I will just have to make do without.” Another deep breath. “It is only tea, after all.”

Staring at her as though he had just seen Tsathoggua Itself, the Mule asked, “You sure it’s only tea? Only you don’t seem--”

“I will be fine. That is, I am fine. Am and will be. Perfectly fine.”

“But--”

“I do not wish to discuss it any further. Packing! We have packing to do. Kindly gather as much papyrus as you can for provisions--strip the scrolls from their wooden spindles, we should travel as lightly as may be--and see if it is possible to bundle these tapestries in a compact fashion. Wood should be brought also, for the purposes of warming ourselves and melting snow for water, and if possible see if you can find…”

Despite the Mule’s best efforts, Sassaflash managed to successfully steer the conversation away from worrywort for the rest of the morning. Before long they had managed to arrange the various supplies they had found in the old guard tower into reasonably portable bundles, and loaded down with their burdens the Dark Lord and her minion set out once more, picking their way down the crumbling stone steps leading up to the tower door and turning back on to the Unicornian road that had led them to their shelter.

It was a long day. Their goal, Sassaflash explained, should be to seek out and investigate any structure that might still hold arcane knowledge or functioning magical devices, and this they attempted to do. The first tower, reached after four grueling hours of scrambling across a glacier to reach the neighboring peak upon which it had been spotted, was a disappointment; although the inhabitants had clearly been wealthy, they seemed to have had little interest in reading--or had loved it too much, and had taken their scrolls with them when they fled their home before the oncoming ice.

The second tower they reached--likely a summer home, Sassaflash explained, built by Unicornian nobility as a refuge from the valleys and the commoners who lived there--was similarly barren. It did, however, offer up one treasure: an ancient telescope of curious design, built with the lenses themselves embedded in some dark stone and connected to each other by an open latticework of bronze wires, bent into various shapes--coiled serpents, salmon and deer, twining vines, and--of course, for ancient and alien though they were, the Unicornians had still been ponies--carefully crafted hearts. Sassaflash immediately took her prize to the top of the desolate tower, and after peering through it at the surrounding mountain slopes for some minutes, gave a sharp “Hah!” of satisfaction. Turning, she said to her minion, “We are in good fortune. There are the remnants of some substantial settlement or construction there, to the right of that nunatak. Our chances of finding suitable arcana there should be much better, and if nothing else, there should be supplies aplenty there. It is some leagues from our current position, but I believe we can reach it before sunset. Here, Mr. Mule. Take my spyglass.”

“Aye aye, Miss Sassaflash.“

“Thank you. I--” The Dark Lord paused, then directed a sharp glare at the Mule, who looked innocently back at her. She raised an eyebrow. “I realize, Mr. Mule, that our customary forms of address do have a certain nautical ring to them, and that the term ‘spyglass’ carries a similar flavor. I would appreciate it, however, if you would not emphasize this. It lacks dignity. Is that clear?”

“Aye--yes, Miss Sassaflash.”

“Good. Now, kindly take my telescope, and let us be off.”

Snow glare dazzled their eyes and wind chilled their bodies as they made their way along ancient paths towards the distant structure Sassaflash had spotted. The Unicornians had been industrious; as they pressed onward, they began to see signs of other habitation surrounding them. Remnants of side roads angled their way down the slope, bridging crevasses and pits in slender arches of interlocking stone and passing through tunnels carved into the living rock of the mountain to vanish beneath the crushing mass of the ice flowing between the peaks. Tapering towers rose from the peaks of far off mountains like pointed crowns, bound together by elevated walkways and linked to the lower reaches by covered stone passageways. At one point they even glimpsed, through the gap between two summits hazed blue by distance, the still-standing ruins of a gigantic aqueduct or road that had been built between two peaks, stretching through the air from the flanks of one mountain to meet with another. Its central supports had long since been toppled by the river of ice slowly but inexorably flowing through the valley beneath, tearing down most of the structure, but enough remained clinging to the slopes of both mountains for the travelers to grasp some sense of what its scale had been when intact. Sassaflash muttered quick calculations to herself, her eyes growing ever wider as she worked out the colossal mass of rock needed to build the bridge and the tremendous stresses it had withstood for so many thousands of years, while the Mule just stared, lost in awe.

For all the power and glory they had possessed, though, the Unicornians were gone, and little by little their works were being beaten apart by time. The Dark Lord and the Mule soon found themselves forced to leave the old carved road, and venture out on to the glacier’s treacherous surface yet again. The ruin that was their goal was visible through the naked eye, now, not just through the telescope they had found, but they still had a long way yet to go, and as they trudged on, tied together by the length of rope that the Mule had brought down with him into the depths of Voormithadreth, the old creature decided that the silence and stillness and immensity of the place was becoming a bit too oppressive. Hurrying forward to the Dark Lord’s side, his hooves crunching in the glacial firn, he said, “So, about this plan o’ yourn.”

Sassaflash‘s ear twitched, and in a guarded tone she said, “Yes?”

Well, it was a big improvement from ‘That is none of your concern.’ Encouraged, the Mule went on, “I know you reckon you’re doing a good thing, but ain’t this chaos critter you’re fixing on setting loose dangerous? They’s a reason it was sealed away in the first place, arter all. Couldn’t an awful lot o’ ponies get hurt?" He waited for a response, but received none. “Miss Sassaflash?”

The Dark Lord bit her lip. “Celestia and Luna will act quickly. They know what Discord is capable of better than anypony else, and they will not let the beast roam free. Then, once they’ve expended their power against that threat, I will step forward, and--”

“What if Discord wins?”

Coming to a halt, Sassaflash turned to face her minion, her mane and tail billowing in the wind. “Discord cannot win. None of them can. The powers all of them will be bringing to bear will be too great, and the universe simply will not allow any of them to retain any measure of good luck after the engagement. Oh, I have no doubt that the Princesses will attempt to dodge that arrow; if they are particularly foolish, they may even send out the six ponies who recently wielded the Elements of Harmony against Luna--as if they have any chance against Discord, Lord of Chaos! Ultimately, though, the only power that will have any chance of matching that demon’s is their own, and once all three have exhausted themselves against one another, I will step forward.”

“Them ponies took on Nightmare Moon, though, and they done beat her.”

The Dark Lord turned, a stern look on her face. “Kindly do not compare me to that...that blithering incompetent. ‘Nightmare Moon’ was little more than Princess Luna playing at villainy, and not doing a particularly good job of it. You’ve heard the stories of the terrible obstacles the Bearers faced, I presume? The only truly dangerous things they faced were an avalanche and a manticore--and trust me when I say that I am significantly more threatening than either of those things. As for the rest, I understand that Nightmare Moon’s other dastardly deeds involved snipping half of a sea serpent’s mustache off, attempting to frighten the Bearers away with some scary-looking trees, and--this I have trouble believing, but I am assured it is true--trying to get one of them to join her sports team. A fell and perilous foe, indeed!”

With a short laugh, Sassaflash resumed her march across the ice, the Mule plodding after her. “No, the Bearers will fail, and Celestia and Luna will be forced to battle Discord themselves. I will have no trouble overpowering the victor and claiming dominion over Equestria, particularly with Celestia and Luna out of the way. There are old, great magics--things forbidden by Celestia and Luna, that they have placed powerful wards against--that I have some knowledge of. With them defeated, their wards will collapse, and many of the old powers--the powers that the Unicornians had access to--will become available to me. Spells for shifting the positions of the stars, Sun, and Moon, for example. Incantations capable of transmuting matter into magic, and magic into matter. Even time travel. True, unfettered time travel, mind you. Limited time travel is, of course, available to particularly gifted mages even today, but it is of no practical value; the range of time one can travel is quite short, the location at which one emerges in the past is uncontrollable, and the spell itself is carefully designed to prevent any alterations to the timeline being made. It is nothing more than a parlor trick, really, useless for the seeker into hidden truths. Without Celestia’s spells, though, the gates of time would open, and one would have unlimited access to past and future. Which is why, of course, the Princesses saw fit to forbid it.” The pegasus came to a halt before a telltale depression in the snow in front of her that marked, possibly, a crevasse, and turned to one side, skirting the hidden pit.

With a sage nod, the Mule said, “On account of ponies’d go back and change things to mess up the future, right?”

She shook her head. “Time does not work that way. The traveler in time who alters the past does not erase their original future, but simply creates two futures, diverging like twigs off a branch.”

The Mule tilted his head in puzzlement, one long ear standing upright and the other flopped over to one side. “Then why’d they forbid traveling through time? Oh, and I reckon we can cross here, Miss Sassaflash. That don’t look like it’s got a pit hole up under it.”

“Ah? Very well.” Moving gingerly, the Dark Lord inched forward, then relaxed as the ice beneath her hooves gave no sign of giving way. “To answer your question, there are…beings that dwell in the angles of time. Hunters, implacable and deadly as a hound chasing after its prey. They resent any and all intrusion into their realm, and will follow and destroy any who dare venture too deep into the past, chasing them back to their own time and slaughtering them and anypony else who dares stand in their way. They always find their prey, no matter where she may hide and no matter what spells she may put up in her defense.” Shading her eyes, the pegasus peered up at the craggy peak rearing up out of the ice far beyond them. “We make good time. ‘The Hounds of Tindalos,’ they are called--somewhat fancifully, for they bear no resemblance to hounds. At least, not that anypony knows. I do not know of any records of anypony who has actually seen them and survived the experience. One victim did scream something about ‘tongues’ before being meticulously disassembled, so perhaps they have those. Or perhaps not.”

“Ain’t there never going to be a question I ask you that don’t end up being answered with a story about some awful pony-eating monster?”

One of the Dark Lord’s rare smiles flickered across her face. “I consider it unlikely.”

Sassaflash‘s estimate of the time it would take them to reach the ruins proved accurate, if only just. By the time they had finally climbed down off the ridge of debris-flecked ice at the edge of the glacier and set their hooves on solid rock once again, the Sun had sunk behind one of the western peaks, cast in stark silhouette against the twilit sky. In this high, dry land the bitter cold of night set in swift and hard, and by the time the two had found the remnants of the road that led to the ruined complex they were already aching with cold. Fortunately their destination was not far up the road, and before long they stood before a tall, peaked stone arch, still intact despite all that wind, ice and time could do to it. Beyond the arch stood a number of tall stone buildings and towers, clustering around a rubble-strewn courtyard and in varying states of disrepair, while in the courtyard itself, rough, snow-dusted boulders of ice stood here and there clustered in groups of twos and threes. They were oddly shaped, and all about the same size, being somewhat taller than the Dark Lord and her minion.

Without a word the two hurried in, making for the nearest of the dark doorways yawning in the face of the crumbling stone buildings. As they entered the darkness within, Sassaflash muttered something under her breath, and a spurt of flame flared into existence upon her outstretched hoof. For a moment they glimpsed a great hall, tall stone columns, heavy ceramic urns, more of the odd icy boulders, perhaps a hint of broken furniture off in the shadows--and then the flame flickered and died, and darkness descended once again.

Turning to where he was reasonably sure the Dark Lord was standing, the Mule said, “It don’t look like they’s any scrolls in here.”

“Yes,” came the reply. “Still, this is but one room. There will be other rooms in this place, and other towers and buildings to explore in the rest of the compound. That, though, is all for tomorrow. For now, we should focus on finding furniture to break up for firewood. It is, I think you will agree with me, too blasted cold.”

“Yes, Miss Sassaflash.”

Embers drifted through the night air, rising up from the glowing remnants of the campfire as the Mule and Sassaflash slumbered beside it. The light gleamed faintly off one of the urns, half as tall as a pony, that stood nearby, filled halfway to its brim with the crumbling remnants of what might once have been a tree or shrub. All was still, silent, dead.

“Nn.”

Sassaflash shifted beneath her covering, one of her ears twitching. One of her hooves began to move, sliding back and forth in an odd, complicated pattern, and she murmured again, this time a bit more loudly.

“N’gha…uln n’gha wgah’n...Yog...Yog-Sothoth…”

The fire flared, and a flame leaped up from one of the embers before subsiding again.

Uln orr’e, uln’bthnk, ebumna ch’geb...

The fire flared again, and this time the flames took hold, dancing and crackling in a sudden burst of light and heat. A scraping, creaking noise came from the urn standing nearby, and a rich, living scent filled the air. The Mule stirred, roused by the sudden revival of the fire, and opened his eyes just in time to see a slender stalk rise up from the ancient urn, its branches twitching and clawing at the air and vivid green leaflets springing into being at the tips of its twigs. The Mule blinked at this once or twice, and then shut his eyes again. A dream. It was a dream of some sort.

”Noggeb shugg...Goka Y’gotha, Yog-Sothoth...Tharanak, Y’vulgtlagln Yog-Sothoth…Uaaah!

The Mule’s eyes snapped open again. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. He propped himself upright, glancing from the shrub, now grown to a respectable size and sending out new leaves every second, to the Dark Lord. “Sleep-spelling?” he murmured. Sassaflash had fallen silent now, although her limbs were still twitching, and after staring at her for a moment the Mule slowly eased himself back to the floor, eyes still fixed on the pegasus. It was lucky, he supposed, that she had just used a plant-growth spell, or whatever that was; from what he had seen her do before, casting spells in her sleep could have ended very badly. His eyes drifted shut again…

“Nnn...Hrrnnn...”

It was a whining sound, thin and frail and frightened. The Mule raised his head, looking across the flames at the pegasus, curled up against herself beneath the thin tapestry wrapped around her. Sassaflash shuddered and clenched her teeth, ears lying flat against her head, before giving a long, low, miserable moan, her voice wavering and full of pain. Casting his covering off, the Mule started to rise to his hooves--

“Mama!”

Sassaflash woke with a scream, her eyes wide and frantic. Her breath coming in harsh gulps, she stared unseeing into the fire, her mouth open and her face contorted in a rictus of pain. She looked up, saw the Mule, tried to say something...and then a heavy, broken sob forced its way out of her throat, and she turned her head away from the light, her back shaking as she sobbed into the thin cloth of the tapestry.

At first all the Mule could do was stare at her, frozen in shock and uncertainty. Her eyes had been so full of pain, pride, frustration, loss...He didn’t know what to do. Comfort her? Pretend nothing had happened? Could she be comforted? She was always so proud, so angry, so determined in her invulnerability--but now she lay hunched on the ground, the fur on her face dark with tears as she howled out her misery to the dark. He couldn’t stand by. He couldn’t. Rising to his hooves, the Mule moved over to Sassaflash and set himself beside her, fur against fur and warmth against warmth. The pegasus started to draw away, but stopped--and then another sob wracked her body, and she leaned back against him, crying and crying.

They sat there for a long time. By degrees, Sassaflash‘s sobbing fell away into dry gulps and messy sniffles, and the quaking of her body gradually stilled. The Mule said nothing, simply sitting beside her in the dark, a warm, solid presence at her side. It seemed best that way.

Finally, her voice numbed and broken, Sassaflash spoke. She made no thanks to the Mule, made no excuses for herself, made no attempt to salvage her dignity or restore her pride. She only stared ahead, gazing with reddened, puffy eyes into the darkness of the ancient Unicornian hall.

“I’ve never spoken of my mother to you. I should have; she was the best mare who ever walked this Earth, so kind, so clever, so wise. She was Saddle Arabian by birth, and she had some of the old blood, the air of the Horse about her. She had wandered the wastes when she was young, like Abd al-Hisan, and she followed in his hoofsteps--but where al-Hisan was broken and warped by his wanderings, she came out of the Rub al-Khayl pure and whole, like...like a stone, tumbled in a stream until it’s smooth and perfect. She knew dark secrets--but she also knew the darkest and most hidden secret of all, that dark is not the same thing as evil.

“Unlike my father, unlike all the other wise fools of the Hollow Shades, who were so scared of the knowledge that it was their task to guard, she understood that truth, that secret, and she taught it to me as well--and tried to teach it to my sister, although I don’t think Starshade ever learned that lesson. If she did, she’s forgotten it by now.

“I learned so many things from my mother. When I was still a foal, she taught me in secret--it was forbidden knowledge, you understand--the art of necromancy, or at least its beginnings. She opened doors for me, and showed me how to think carefully, quickly, never lingering, always watching--the safety of motion. I learned Aklo from her--learned the language that no books teach, not even the Equunomicon, that can only be learned from somepony or something who speaks it. And I loved her. I loved her more than anything else in the world.

“Then, when I was still a foal, before I even had my cutie mark, there was...a sickness. Nothing unusual about it, I suppose; just one of those things that happen. The doctors tried what they could, but it wasn’t enough, and she dwindled and faded and died, and all I could do was watch and cry, helpless to save her. And my father and sister cried with me, and wished that they could have saved her.

“But they could have saved her, or could have tried; I knew that. They might have been scared of the knowledge, scared of the powers and responsibilities it gave them, but the elders and my father knew of the old, dark secrets too. It’s difficult or impossible to bring back somepony who has recently died, yes, but they could have tried! They didn’t even try! They were too afraid, too weak, too cowardly. That’s what I felt.

“But I wasn’t afraid. My mother had taught me to be strong, and to face the world as it is, not cower in fear of it and whimper after a fantasy, and even then I knew more of necromancy than most other ponies in the world. I decided that if they were too cowardly to bring her back, then I would do it.

“So I studied her books, and gathered the herbs she had picked, and searched the woods for small dead things and preserved them in wax, so that I could use their flesh and bones to knit together a new body for her. I went out one night alone with a spade and a sled--Starshade wouldn’t come with me, she was too frightened of what I was planning to do, although I did get her to promise not to tell our father--and I took my mother out of her grave where my father had left her to rot, and brought her back to our home, and down into the basement.

“I could barely look at her, but I knew what to do--knew what I had to do. I rendered her down to her essential salts in her own cauldron, that she had used so often for her own potions and brews, and while her salts were drying I dissolved the carcasses I had collected, using the formula she taught me, so that their flesh and bones could be molded into her flesh and bones. I spoke the words. I drew the circles. I called upon the Outer Gods, and at my bidding They reached back into the past, plucking her mind and form from her deathbed and bringing them forward to me.

“I remember it so well, now. The candles on the walls, flickering and guttering in the winds swirling around the cauldron--the spattering of liquid on the stone floor--my voice, the voice of a foal, squeaking out words never meant to be spoken by ponykind. The air burned violet around the cauldron’s iron rim, and I could hear things moving within, matter being drawn together into a new body. In my mind I could already see her raising her head out, confused but alive, and I could see myself running up to her and holding her and never, ever letting go...

“But for all my strength and all my courage, I was still a foal, and what I was trying to do was beyond me--beyond anypony, maybe. The winds died down, the fires stilled. The splashing and hissing stopped. I waited, but she didn’t lift her head up over the rim--even though I could hear something moving inside, shifting wet against the metal. Maybe she was stuck, I thought. Maybe she needed help. So I went up to the cauldron, and I hooked my hooves around the handle and pulled. It tilted on its legs, tipped up--I jumped back, out of the way--and it fell forward onto the stones, and the thing that was inside spilled out in front of me.

“At first, I thought I had succeeded. There was something off about her, but I knew that mane, that face, those eyes...And then she turned, her head weaving and bobbing like she was saltdrunk. Her other eye was white and half gone, leaking down her face, and her face itself was rotting, her skin hanging loose and pale against the bone. That was when the smell hit me, and I stumbled back, just as she stumbled forward and on to her hooves--or what was left of them.

“Necromancy needs time. It works by drawing an image of somepony’s mind and body back from before they died, but it can only pick a specific time to draw them back from if they’ve been dead decades, at the very least. Centuries is better. When they haven’t been dead long enough, bringing them back brings back...bits and pieces from different times. Half of their mind may be thinking one thing, and the other half thinking something else. Half of their heart may be pumping blood out, and the other half may be drawing it in. Half of them may be alive, and half may be dead…

“Her tail fell off as she stood up, and one of her legs buckled under the weight, the rotting tendons too weak to hold it together. Her brain must have been decayed in places, her nerves would have been half whole and half eaten, her heart pumping putrid blood through rotting veins... She slipped forward, towards me, and made this...this sound. I don’t know if she recognized me when she saw me. I think she was in too much pain to notice anything. She tried to scream...

“It was over soon, fortunately. She couldn’t stay alive for more than a minute or two like that. Then the door to the cellar slammed open, and there was my father, at the top of the stairs...I don’t know whether Starshade told him what I was doing, or whether he had heard the cauldron tip over and had come to investigate. It doesn’t really matter. He came down the stairs, staring at what was left of his wife with these wide, dead eyes. He stumbled up to her. Looked down. Then he looked at me. I’ve never seen so much terror in anypony’s eyes before or since. He backed away, then turned and galloped up the stairs and out the door. I could hear him shouting for help, but I wasn’t really paying attention. All I could do was stare at my mother’s body, remember the agony in her face as she died a second time, and think to myself, I did this.

Sassaflash drew a long, shuddering breath, and turned to look to the Mule’s horrified face. “I’ve been drugging myself with worrywort ever since. In large doses, as you know, it’s a potent amnesiac that erases short term memories completely--but in small doses, when taken over long periods of time, it suppresses long term memories. It doesn’t erase them; a pony taking the herb still knows what happened to them in the past. But the emotional content is muted. It is, in a way, a shortcut through the grieving process; it carries one straight past the pain, leaving only a dull sense of loss and sadness that never quite disappears. One remembers the pain, but doesn’t feel it. But if one stops taking it, soon enough the colors return to the old memories, and the old flames are kindled. The grief comes back, as fierce and agonizing as it was on the very first day. Since we lost all our worrywort to Tsathoggua’s spawn, the nightmares have been getting stronger and more vivid, and I suppose tonight they finally came to a head, and all the intensity of my memories broke through, all at once.

“There’s not too much left to tell. Some of the laws of the Hollow Shades are forgiving. Possession of forbidden grimoires, for example, is usually either ignored or dealt with with a small fine. Divination is frowned on, but as long as no particularly dangerous beings are invoked, it’s accepted. But necromancy--there is no forgiveness for that, for no one, under any circumstances. They found me still down there in the basement when they came back, and brought me out into the dawn. The council of elders convened a few days later, and they--my father included, he was one of the newest members--voted to banish me from the Hollow Shades, never to return, for the horrific thing I had done. I was only a foal, but it made no difference. They gave me some supplies, and a map to the nearest village--there was no train then, not yet--and took me to the town gates and barred them behind me.

“It was then, as I was sitting there under the gates, staring up the long, winding road that led up out of the valley and shivering in the wind blowing through the dark fir trees around me, that I felt a strange tingling on my flank. I turned, looking back, and I saw a pattern form on my haunches: a double lightning bolt. You’ve heard the saying ‘lightning never strikes the same place twice?’ Well, that’s not true of me. Lightning struck me twice, once with my mother's death and again when my attempt to bring her back failed, and I swore, that day beneath the trees and the clouded, swirling sky, that I would become lightning myself, and I too would strike twice. I would do the impossible, become the thing that never happens. I would find a way to break down the barriers against time travel, even if it meant overthrowing Celestia herself. I would bring back my mother. And together, we would make certain that nopony ever had to go through pain like mine again.”

Chapter 13

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 14

Within Starswirl's tomb, a little pebble sitting on an unfolded length of tapestry rocked on its base, wobbling as it was pushed first one way and then another by the arcane energies humming in the air around it. Sassaflash stood nearby, forcing ancient, uncouth words out of her throat and weaving them into the burgeoning spell swirling around the pebble. Still chanting, she extended a wing and scooped a sprig of raskovnik up in her cupped primaries, lifted it above the pebble, and let it fall.

The raskovnik touched the pebble.

The pebble vanished.

Half a yard to the left, there was a sharp crack, and a small explosion filled the air with fine rock dust. Scowling, the Dark Lord raised a wing in front of her face against the drifting dust, and backed away from the chalky cloud with one or two muffled coughs. With two quick wingbeats, she shaped the cloud and forced it down through the stone lattice of the chamber's floor, to sink into the dark pool beneath.

The sound of hoofsteps filtered in from outside, and the Mule's coarse gray face appeared in the gap between the half-open door and the stone frame. "It done bust again?"

“What does it look like?" snapped the pegasus, shaking the dust from her feathers with short whip-snap motions of her wings. She glared at her minion. "Do you have anything useful to say, or did you just come here to waste my time with idiotic questions?" Then, seeing the hurt look on his face as he turned to leave, she sighed and gestured with a forehoof for him to come in. "No, don't go. I am sorry; I shouldn't take out my frustration on you. I just can't make this work, and it is...vexing to me."

The Mule shuffled inside. "Maybe you should leave it be for a spell? It ain't a-going to help nothing if you's too het up to think straight." Pale green stalks bent and rustled around him as he settled himself down in the crook of a twisting root-branch sprawling across and through the floor. Sassaflash drew a deep breath, and managed a strained smile.

"Perhaps you're right. I am a little overwrought. Zhro!" A shivering relaxation rippled through the air and the shadows softened, as though some hidden tension running through reality itself had been suddenly lifted. "I had kept that thaumic scaffold up longer than was prudent, in any case, and it was beginning to decay."

"O' course," said the Mule, with a sagacious nod. His attention drifted over to a decorated ceramic urn, sitting in a corner, and he turned to the Dark Lord, one eyebrow raised.

She gave a quick shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I was merely...inspecting it. I lack the necessary equipment and raw materials to attempt a resurrection, in any case.” The pegasus gave an awkward flutter of her wings, and with a touch of false bravado, added, “not that I would try to revive Starswirl. It would be foolhardy, as we discussed. Certainly not. I have more wit than that.” She bit her lip. “So! Your presence is not unwelcome, of course, but was there any subject you wished to broach?”

The Mule blinked. “Broach?”

“Did you want to talk about something?”

“Oh! Oh. Well, as a matter o’ fact, they was something.” The old creature shifted a bit, settling into a more comfortable position. “See, I been thinking. I still ain’t happy with this plan o’ yourn, and I still reckon they’s a good reason Celestia lets things go the way they goes. It just...it don’t make sense for her to be so good with everything else, and so bad with this one thing.”

Sassaflash frowned. “We have discussed this before, Mr. Mule, and I have made my views perfectly clear. Besides, I can hardly waltz up to Canterlot and ask her to explain herself. She clearly prefers not to make her reasons known to ponykind at large, and would no doubt fashion some soothing lie, and if I forced her hoof by revealing my knowledge of what she could do--what I could do--I would reveal myself to her, and that would be the ruin of all my hopes. I can hardly confront her.”

“No,” mused the Mule, “No, you can’t, at that.” He paused. “But I could.”

The Dark Lord blinked, one ear cocked as though she thought she had misheard him. “You...what?”

“What I said. Supposing I went up to Canterlot, and asked her for you? They ain’t nopony but Miss Sweetie Belle and my wife that knows I work for you, and they ain’t a-going to say nothing. If she ain’t as bad as you reckons, and she’s got good reasons for doing what she does, and not doing what she don’t do...You see? That might save you from making a real big mistake.” He gave her a sudden, keen glance. “And you could do it, couldn’t you? Whatever happened down there in Voomuth--you know, it didn’t wreck your plans. I seen how you looked when I said you’d left your saddlebag behind. They was something in it that you meant to bring down there, and you brung it down, even if it near killed you. Ain’t that right?”

“Perceptive as always, Mr. Mule,” said Sassaflash, but she said it absently, and a pensive look crept across her face. “You might be very wrong about her, you know. It is possible that she would go to great lengths to preserve her secret, and Discord might not be the only soul she has imprisoned in stone and set on display in her sculpture garden.” She shook her head. “No. No, I cannot allow you to risk yourself in this way. You are my minion, and your safety is my responsibility. No, I am not comfortable with this at all.”

“When it comes to that,” said the Mule, “I ain’t real comfortable with you fixing to take over the world, but ain’t I helped you? Ain’t I done like you asked, and gone where you wanted?" He paused and, seeing her hesitation, continued, "Ain't it my choice to make, and my risk to take?"

“That may be so, but I don’t--even if--” She stared helplessly at him, her tail lashing back and forth in nervous, twitchy sweeps. “What do you want of me? Shall I put my campaign on hold while you knock on Celestia’s door and politely ask her if she’s the greatest monster in history? What if she hurts you? You can’t expect me to agree to this.”

“That’s exactly what I do expect,” rejoined her minion. “And she ain’t a-going to turn me into no statue. I won’t be the first one to ask her why she don’t save more ponies, and I won’t be the last, neither. Don’t it make sense to make sure you ain’t making a mistake?”

“Mr. Mule, I have waited years for this!”

“Then what’s a few extry days going to hurt?” The old creature smiled, and laid a hoof gently on Sassaflash‘s shoulder. She tensed, then slowly relaxed. “Come on, Miss Sassaflash. Give me a chance.”

The Dark Lord considered this in silence for some moments, her head bowed and face shadowed. Overhead, the constellation of light stones set in the ceiling of Starswirl’s tomb glowed a soft amber-white, their smooth surfaces twined round with the tendrils of the rampant raskovnik. At length she looked up. “It’s--you may not be wrong, Mr. Mule. No. If this were simply a matter of schemes and plans and prudence, I might agree with you. But it is not such a matter, and the mortality of the ponies of Equestria is not all that is at stake. I have not labored heart, soul, and blood for more than ten years for them. I have to go through with this. I can’t abandon my mother.”

Meeting her gaze, the Mule asked, “Even if something real bad’d happen?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. It depends.” In a hushed, almost frightened murmur, she continued, “I don’t know how far I’m willing to go. How much I’m willing to sacrifice. I--I thought I knew.” A sigh. “I do not believe I can promise, even if Celestia has good reasons for all she does and does not do, that I will not still act. But I can grant you this, at least: I will wait for you to speak with her. I will wait, and listen, and consider, and if I have to--if I can bear it--I’ll hold back.”

The Mule smiled. “I reckon that’s good enough for me.” He spat on his hoof and held it out. “It’s a deal!”

Sassaflash eyed the proffered hoof uncomfortably. “I, er, would prefer not to…”

“Oh. Right, right.” The Mule wiped his hoof against his fur. “Still a deal, though, right?”

“Yes.” The Dark Lord nodded. “You have my word.”

The brief boreal night passed swiftly, punctuated at odd intervals by the crack of detonating pebbles and the muttered imprecations of the Dark Lord Sassaflash against magic in general and raskovnik in particular. Despite the occasional explosions, the Mule managed to get some much-needed sleep curled up in a dim corner of Starswirl’s tomb. He walked with his wife in the fields above the winding river Skai and told her of what was happening in the waking world, and together they watched the moon rise above the distant mountains. For a thousand years it had been a dark, menacing thing, infested with flabby, eyeless moonbeasts and their cloven-hoofed slaves, but when Princess Luna had returned to the Dreamlands she had driven them all back to the plateau of Leng or to the Dreamlands of other worlds. Now lanterns were being lit in the ancient lunar cities, spangling the darkness between the crescent moon’s horns with webs of glittering light. Little by little, the clutching blackness that had consumed the Dreamlands was giving way to the soft, gentle shadows of a starlit summer’s night.

At length he awoke to the continuing sound of Sassaflash‘s teleportation experiments going explosively wrong. For some moments he sat there on the floor of the tomb, blinking bleary eyes and considering this pony who was doing her level best to cast down Celestia and Luna and forever rob the world of their light, and then he decided that he wanted a little fresh air and time by himself. Rising to his hooves, he ambled past the Dark Lord and out the tomb’s circular door, squinting in the harsh light of day. Around him rose the towers of silence raised by Unicornian kings thousands of years before, casting long, somber shadows across the pebbled plain. It was not, he thought, the most cheerful place in the world, but it was good for thinking. Very quiet, very peacef--

The Mule brayed in surprise as something exploded with a sharp crack right beside him, peltering his flank with a spray of stinging grit. He turned, looking back at the low dome of Starswirl’s tomb, and in a moment Sassaflash‘s head emerged from the darkness within, blinking in the light.

“My apologies, Mr. Mule. Your departure appears to have disturbed the adaptive triangulation I was using to determine the destination of the teleported stones. You are unhurt?”

Her minion nodded. “Yep. Just startled by being hit with all that sand, is all.”

“Hrmph!” The Dark Lord gave a disgusted snort. “Sand! You mean dust. ‘Sand’ would be better than the powder I’ve been getting. At least the pieces would be marginally bigger. We might hope to arrive home as tiny chunks, rather than merely as a fine red mist. A vast improvement, certainly!”

“No, I mean sand.” The Mule knelt, and scooped up some of the grit from where it had fallen on ground. “See?”

Her brow furrowed, Sassaflash trotted over to where the Mule stood, and peered at the fine grains resting on his outstretched hooves. “But that’s...you’re right. That is sand. I can actually make out individual grains. But what--why--” She stopped abruptly, shot a quick glance at the Mule, and then made an abrupt about-face, calling as she trotted back to the tomb, “Stay there, and don’t move.”

The Mule stayed there. He didn’t move. Then, with another loud snap, another spray of sand hit him in the flank. Sassaflash poked her head back out of the shadows. “More sand?”

“Yep. Miss Sassaflash, what--”

“Silence! I am doing Science. Move ten paces to your left, if you please. Good. Stay still.”

Crack!

Emerging from the crypt like a groundhog lifting its head out of its burrow, the Dark Lord called, “Are the grains bigger or smaller now?”

The Mule squinted down at the particles littering the ground at his hooves. “I reckon they’s a mite bigger.”

“How much, precisely?”

He considered the question, and then hazarded, “...A mite?”

“Good. Very good!” The pegasus gave a delighted little flick of her wings, and allowed a small, triumphant smile to creep across her face. “Now, turn around, and face towards the crypt rather than away…”

The next thirty minutes were spent in a flurry of experimentation, with Sassaflash barking out orders from within the crypt while the Mule ambled to and fro across the waste, gathering fragments of pulverized rock from successive explosions. It wasn’t long before they realized that distance was the key factor; the farther the destination, the larger the fragments that the pebble arrived in. Following a few more trials at carefully-determined lengths away from the tomb, the Dark Lord called a halt to further experimentation and, after pacing out the distances that different pebbles had been teleported and squinting at the resulting grains, began scrawling out diagrams and equations on the ground and muttering about arc lengths and chords and the inverse-square law. The Mule plodded up alongside her and peered over her shoulder at the circles and numbers spreading out through the chill, dry dust before her. Giving a quiet cough, he said, “So, you reckon we might be able to get back?”

“...So, three hundred and sixty times further, squared, multiplied by about five thous, gives...Yes, yes. Our odds aren’t bad, at any rate.” She looked up from her calculations and trotted off in a random direction, occasionally glancing behind at her bemused minion. Before long she stopped and, peering over the distance between herself and the Mule, repeated, “Not bad at all. Eleven yards should be more than enough.”

The Mule walked over to her side. “More’n enough for what?”

“For us to arrive in one piece. The farther away from the point of teleportation, the more spread-out the shatterpoints are. If that pattern holds, then they should be very roughly eleven yards away from each other across the distance between here and Ponyville. Very roughly. We stand a decent chance of arriving without intersecting with any of the...discontinuities, at least.”

“And what happens if we do hit one o’ them disconti-whatsits?”

Sassaflash cast a quick glance at a nearby patch of dust smeared across the rough-edged gravel of the valley floor, long pale rays streaking out around it and the rocks at its center whitened and chipped by the force of the explosion that had created it. “Let us hope that we do not have occasion to find out.”

The Mule’s ears swung back against his head, and his eyes widened. “...Alrighty, then.” A pause. “They ain’t nothing we can do to make it a mite...safer?”

With a quick shake of her head, Sassaflash turned and began to trot back towards the low dome of Starswirl’s tomb, steam rising in little swirling eddies from its slightly-ajar door. “Not that I can think of. Truth be told, we are fortunate to be able to avail ourselves of even these odds. I would offer to make the journey alone and attempt to arrange for your retrieval by more conventional means, but I do not know that any rescue could hope to arrive in time.”

“No, you’re right at that.” The Mule gave a little shrug, and followed her into the green, overgrown chamber of the crypt, dangling mats of raskovnik trailing past his head as he entered. “Ain’t no sense in putting it off, then, I reckon.”

“Indeed not. Together, then.” The Dark Lord fanned her wings forward, splaying her feathers wide to catch the slightest shifts in the air, and took a slow step forward. “ftaghu naflthrod ng’nnnehye, ilyaalw’nafh… I must ask for your patience; local space must be stabilized before we can proceed.”

“Alrighty.” The Mule settled himself down on the carved stone lattice of the tomb’s floor. “It’s safer for us to go at the same time than one by one, then?”

“Not precisely, no.” The pegasus shifted to one side in an unsteady, arrhythmic sort of half-stumble, flickering her wingtips to and fro in tight, controlled motions as she shaped the magic around her. “In fact, our odds are slightly worse traveling together than apart. But were we to travel separately, I would have to send you first in order to maintain the connection from this end, and I have no intention of using you as thale cress in an experiment.”

“Now, that don’t make no sense.” Rising to his hooves, the Mule shook his head. “It’s a risk both ways, ain’t it? If it’s safer to go separate, then shouldn’t we ought to go separate? I don’t got no problem with going first.”

Sassaflash slowed her uneven dance, and turned to look at her minion. “Are you certain? I do not quite like the idea of sending you off alone, while I wait here safe and secure.”

“It’s alright, Miss Sassaflash, it’s alright,” said the Mule, raising a hoof. “I ain’t skeert.” Drawing a deep breath, he said, “I’m ready whenever you is.”

She eyed him for a moment longer, then turned and gave an odd flopping half-twist of her right wing, muttering grotesque, awkwardly-shaped words as she placed the finishing touches on her spell. “So be it. Come, stand you here, and give me the saddlebag. I would like to take several cuttings of raskovnik with me when I make the leap, to see if I can manage to cultivate them back in Ponyville. Thank you. Now, be still…”

The Dark Lord stepped back, a solemn look on her face, and began to chant--sotto voce at first, but with each passing moment her voice grew louder, and the irregular, ugly words gouged their way deeper into the air within the crypt. A shiver slid up the Mule’s spine, the muscles beneath his skin twitching like frightened insects trying to crawl free. Space was folding around him, molding itself to his body--and to something else, very, very far away.

”Fm’latgh ftaghunglui, geb sgn’wahl cgwai…”

The image of Sassaflash wavered, faint flickers of pale blue and red dancing in opposition around her outline as the gnarled raskovnik behind her twisted. The entire room seemed to be everting itself around the Mule, everything rotating forward as though he were sliding back across the floor while somehow remaining standing firmly in the center of the chamber. He winced as a sharp ache juddered up his left foreleg. A similar pain bit at his tail, then faded away. “M--miss Sassaflash?”

”K’yarnak ‘bthnk, ag ch’sgnnak yahl.” There was a strangely anechoic quality to her voice now, the words stabbing through a fog of echoes and murmurs. She paused, concern on her flickering face. “...Stop, Mr. Mu--Shall I sto--Are you alright? Shall I stop, Mr. Mule?--alright? Shall I--Are you--are you--Mr. Mule?” Her image lurched unsteadily, drifting back and forth through time. The Mule hesitated, then shook his head.

“No, I reckon I’m okay. Go on.” He probably sounded as distorted to her as she did to him, but she seemed to get the gist of what he was saying, for she resumed her chant. The Aklo words plunged down through the billowing space around the Mule like stones through mist, heavy and solid in a world of shadows. Colors and shapes flickered around him--books? Was that a table, or just a branch of the raskovnik? Were those rafters, or the carved stone vault of the tomb? Sassaflash‘s voice thundered on, rising to a crescendo--and then stilled, falling into deafening silence.

Reality hung in abeyance.

“--You ready, Mr.--Is done. It is done. Are you rea--Mr. Mule? Are you--it is--Mule?”

The Mule swallowed. “Yes.”

For a moment there was stillness. Then a single word smashed through the haze, long and howling and powerful.

Uaaah!

The world unmade itself.

Author's Note

Happy Episode 100 day! My apologies for the long delay since the last chapter, and for the rather short length and relative uneventfulness of this'un; don't ye fret, though, the next chapter is coming along nicely, and much of great import will be happening therein. Until then, I hope you enjoy this installment.

...Let's see, I knew there was something else. Ah, yes. One minor note; at one point during the above chapter, 'Sash states that she is uncomfortable using the Mule as "thale cress" in an experiment. Thale cress is the common name of Arabidopsis thaliana, a popular model organism in biology due to its relatively simple genome. As ponies would, naturally, be appalled by the idea of animal experimentation, the phrase "to use someone as thale cress" is more or less equivalent to our "use someone as a guinea pig." Just thought I'd clear that up, in case anyone was a bit puzzled.

Chapter 15

Feeble sunbeams stretched through the dusty air, slipping through thin crevices in the shuttered windows and past weighty stacks of books and papers. Here and there they fell upon this or that object, bringing a sliver of it into lighted existence: a gleaming slice of a shuttered glass cabinet, the spine of an ancient grimoire, a long, narrow fragment of a worn hardwood floor. All else was invisible.

Something stirred the space of the room. The sunbeams twitched, angling away from where they had fallen and sliding over paper and bindings and close-written blackletter leaves. Dust swirled across the floor and pages fluttered in a sudden draught.

Then, with an anticlimactic little crack of displaced air, the breeze stilled and the light unskewed as a disheveled pegasus popped into existence, stumbling forward out of nothing on to the wooden floorboards. Sassaflash stood still for a moment, panting, with her legs trembling and braced against the floor. She had the peculiar impression that she had just been turned inside out, meticulously disassembled, and then pieced together again, and she wasn’t entirely sure that everything had been put back in the right place.

The pegasus took an unsteady step forward, then drew a deep breath and willed the tensed muscles in her neck to relax. It had worked. Nothing had gone wrong. She raised her head. “Mr. Mule?”

Her voice came out as almost a whisper, vanishing into the soft darkness of the book-filled chamber. She cleared her throat, and more loudly, repeated, “Mr. Mule! Where are you?”

“Over here.” The words were oddly strained. There was a faint rustle of attempted movement, and then a sharp, shuddering gasp. “I can’t—it hurts to breathe…”

A crawling chill flashed through Sassaflash‘s skin, her breath catching in her mouth. No. “Mr. Mule! Just a moment, I am coming. Just a moment.” Cthugha take this darkness! Letting her bulging saddlebag slip to the floor with a careless shrug of her shoulders, she scrambled over to where she knew her little scroll-encumbered writing desk was, knocking several stacks of books to the floor in the process, and fumbled for the switch of the glass cathode light on the desk, hooves shaking. Nothing. She muttered a curse, unhooked the bulky, long-since-depleted homemade battery from its holster, and grabbed one of the replacements and slotted it into place. With a click and a dull hum, a chalky, heatless light flooded the room.

Finally. The Dark Lord whipped around, scanning the room. “Where are you?”

“Here.”

Sassaflash shoved aside a pile of treatises on Mǎ dynasty qilin alchemy and scrambled around a bookcase. There, lying half-shadowed on the wooden floor, was the Mule, his ribs rising in shallow, shaking motions with each breath and his legs sprawled out to the side. He tilted his head as the Dark Lord came into view, his skin a bloodless white under his dark fur, and murmured, “You got through fine, then. That’s good.”

The Dark Lord swallowed, and the knot of horrified guilt building in her throat sank down into the pit of her stomach and sat there like a lump of lead. “This shouldn’t have happened...N’ghftngn’gha. What hurts?”

“My right front leg. And right side. I can’t tell if they’s anything else that’s busted up.”

“Right. Don’t—don’t move. I’ll—I have some acetylated willow bark extract, it’ll relieve the pain. Just don’t move.” She disappeared into the stacks of books, only to reappear almost instantly, a scowl on her face. Muttering something about stupidity, she put her shoulder to the bookcase standing between the Mule and the cathode lantern and pushed it out of the way, straining as her hooves scraped against the thick wooden boards of the floor. Pallid light washed feebly over the Mule, and Sassaflash trotted to his side. “I’m an idiot. Need to examine you first. Which foreleg was it? This one? Try to move it, if you please—slightly.”

After several minutes of gentle prodding and questioning and a few hissed exclamations of pain from the Mule, Sassaflash rose to her hooves. “A broken radius, I think—and probably several broken ribs. Maybe damage to soft tissues, as well; the swelling from the broken bones makes it difficult to tell, and I have no idea how the teleportation defects affect flesh. A matter for future experimentation, I suppose. I’ll need to get some fresh corpses from Angel.” She paused, marshalling her thoughts, and then whirled around and vanished amongst the books again, muttering “Willow bark” repeatedly and leaving the Mule to struggle with the problem of coming up with an innocent interpretation of the phrase “I’ll need to get some fresh corpses from Angel.”

There was a period of distant rattlings, clatterings, and the echoed hints of expletives in forbidden languages. These sounds were followed by a muffled exclamation, a dull thud as if something heavy had been dropped on the floor, and then an interval of almost-silence with, the Mule thought, the hint of whispered words in Aklo, and then a sound like some animal scratching or digging through loose soil. At length the Dark Lord reappeared, a tiny silver spoon and a dusty glass bottle filled with a dark liquid pinned between her wing and her flank. Kneeling by the Mule’s side, she balanced the spoon on one hoof and filled it halfway with the liquid. Turning to her wounded minion, she said, “Laudanum, not the willow bark extract. It’s a much stronger analgesic, and in any case the willow bark extract is a blood thinner, which might well have been harmful, given that we don’t know the extent of your internal injuries.” She tipped the spoon to the Mule’s mouth, and the old creature swallowed the tincture with a shiver and a horrible grimace. At his reaction, Sassaflash murmured, “I, ah, should probably have mentioned that it’s very bitter.”

“That’s—that’s alright. It don’t signify,” responded the Mule, staring vaguely ahead as he opened and closed his mouth several times, smacking his lips together as though trying to suck the taste off his palate. Drawing a shuddering, pained breath, he asked, “So, do you need to splint me up now?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Sassaflash shook her head. “I’m good at field medicine, but I can’t risk—you need to be cared for by professionals. I sent Crowded Parchment to get some paramedics, they should be here soon—Azathoth take it, I forgot to make certain that Parchment knows this address. He doesn’t usually come by the streets.” She gave a small, nervous stamp of her hoof and continued muttering, more to herself than to the Mule, “Idiot! I should have thought of that. Perhaps Angel—no, he’s too far off, and Sweetie Belle is likely at her school at this hour. I could go myself, of course, just to make sure…” She eyed her minion, her face pinched with worry.

The Mule managed a smile. “I’ll be fine by myself, if’n you reckon you should go. It don’t even hurt so bad, no more.”

“Of course it doesn’t; you’ve just taken laudanum. It is, as I said, quite a potent analgesic.”

“Oh. Right.” The Mule blinked, and then inquired, “You mentioned a pony named Crowded Parchment…?”

“Pony? He’s—ah, yes, you have not made his acquaintance.” Sassaflash made an apologetic little gesture with her forehoof, and said, “He prefers not to be known, and I honor his wishes. I’m afraid I cannot tell you any more concerning him.” She hesitated, eyeing the Mule speculatively, and then concluded, “He can, at least, be trusted to find his way to the hospital and back again, I think. He’s quite competent in his way. I will remain, then.”

“Much obliged, I’m sure,” was the Mule’s equable response.

The next half hour passed in a quiet haze of dulled pain for the Mule, and frustrated, tense activity for Sassaflash. Bookcases and books were shoved out of the way in order to make a clear path between the Mule and the door, cloths were draped over some of the more disturbing tomes lying within view, the lock on the iron-barred cabinet holding several peculiarly dangerous works was triple-checked, and various incriminating or unnerving objects were quietly tucked away into corners where, the Dark Lord hoped, they would be unlikely to attract attention. She was contemplating the giant squid eyeball floating placidly in a jug of formaldehyde on top of a stack of texts she had stolen from a Nightmare Moon cult five years earlier, and trying to remember whether that was the kind of thing that normal ponies found concerning, when she heard the sound of hooves against cobbles outside and, shortly thereafter, a knock upon the door.

Finally. With one last glance around the room to make sure that she hadn’t left anything too obviously necromantic out in the open, the pegasus trotted over to the door, slid the numerous bolts and latches holding it shut, and cracked it open, peering suspiciously out. Old habits died hard.

Three ponies stood before Sassaflash‘s cottage. Two stood a bit away from the looming house, dressed in hospital uniforms and accompanied by a wheeled stretcher, while the third waited on the steps in front of the door. This last, a stunted, hunched figure draped in a rough cloak that hid his face from sight, gave a short nod of greeting at Sassaflash‘s appearance and asked, in a throaty voice like the whine of a hungry dog, “Is there aught of thy art in sight? Belike, those yonder would be frighted by the uncanny craft.”

The Dark Lord let out a breath that she hadn’t realized she had been holding. “Thank goodness! Come in, hurry; all of you. He’s over here. I’ve given him ten minims of laudanum for the pain. Yes, yes, Parchment, it’s fine. I’ve cleaned things up. Come in!”

Opening the door wide, she gestured for the three visitors to come inside, surreptitiously motioning Crowded Parchment over to one side to stand in front of the skull of a thing that was not quite a pony and not quite a fish. The hospital orderlies, a pair of unicorns, shot a nervous look at their guide as they passed under the lintel, and gave him as wide a berth as possible as they maneuvered the stretcher through the cramped open space Sassaflash had cleared within her bookish lair. Evidently he had made something of an impression on them during the journey over.

They made no comment, though, and beyond a few wide-eyed, disturbed stares when the stretcher accidentally knocked the shrouding cloth partially off a wire cage and a slender, glistening tentacle emerged from between the bars to pull the cloth back into place, they seemed mostly focused on getting the Mule safely on to the stretcher and out of Sassaflash‘s home as soon as possible. He was levitated up without any problems, and after somewhat blearily reassuring his employer that he would make certain that the hospital staff knew to admit her for visits, he was trundled out the door and down the street.

The Dark Lord remained for some moments on the stairs in front of her home, watching them go, and then with a small sigh she turned and went back inside, locking and bolting the door behind her. “Thank you, Parchment. Thank you so much. I couldn’t have borne—I do not wish for him to be damaged.” A shadow detached itself from the shadows, and the cloaked figure of Crowded Parchment glided forward with a faint clack of hooves against the hardwood floor. Sassaflash gave a small nod, and in answer to the unasked question, said, “Yes, they’re gone. It’s safe.”

There was a rustle of fabric among the stacks of books as Crowded Parchment doffed his cloak, and then the Dark Lord’s associate stepped forward into the light. His body was gray and hairless, his naked skin lined with rubbery creases, while his hooves had split open into heavy splayed claws. He raised an earless half-equine and half-canine head, his eyes sunk deep into the sockets of his skull, and grinned a grin that was far wider than should have been possible. “I wit not why thou sent for the leeches. I could have dealt with him in my own way.” Huge, strong carnassials, built for crushing bone and shearing meat, gleamed dully in his mouth.

Sassaflash frowned. “I don’t abandon my own, ghoul.”

“Aye, aye. ‘Twas but a jest. Fresh meat is not to my liking, in any case.” The ghoul gave another cadaverous grin, and then shuffled over to the Dark Lord’s side, hoof-claws scraping on the floor. “Wilt thou spring thy trap this e’en, or on the morrow? How much time have I to dig my shelter?”

“As I’ve said, a shelter shouldn’t be necessary. I don’t anticipate the Princesses allowing the battle to range widely. Regardless, the point is moot; it will be some weeks, at least, before I’m able to open the conduits to the Canterhorn basin.” Trotting over to her saddlebag, lying on the floor where she had dropped it in her worry for the Mule, the Dark Lord slung it on to her back and picked her way over and around several bookcases to the stairs leading up to the house’s second story.

“Weeks?” Crowded Parchment followed her up the creaking stairs, squinting in the light as she swung the door at the top open to reveal a glass-roofed room, its humid air rich with the spice of strange flowers and herbs and the scent of black, fertile soil. He tilted back on to his haunches, claws crossed across his belly, as Sassaflash laid her saddlebag on the floor and began to extract several bundles of fresh worrywort cuttings from within. “Is thy work still undone, then? I had thought…”

“No, no.” The Dark Lord laid down the sachet of powder she had been pouring into several small jars of water, and shook her head. “All is in readiness. But, well...Mr. Mule felt that I was being hasty, and we came to an agreement of sorts. He is to attempt to determine Celestia’s motives for her actions, and based on that, I will...consider whether it is wise to move forward. And,” she added, throwing a stern glance at the creature at her side, “I do not wish to hear any wise remarks from you on that subject.”

“From me? Why would I have aught to say? It matters not to me who made thee see sense, so long as thou hast seen it. I am content.”

“Yes. Well.” Sassaflash placed the last of the cuttings in the nutrient solutions she had prepared, and headed for the stairs. “I confess I had hoped, when I had consented to his plan, that I would only be facing a delay of a day or two. Several weeks, or months, or however long it will take for him to be well enough to travel to Canterlot, was a bit more than I had expected.”

“Aye, ‘twas hardly considerate of him to break his leg. Very selfish, to be sure.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Trotting down the warped stairs and making her way to the front door, she called over her shoulder, “My thanks to you, incidentally, for tending to the garden in my absence; it would have been in an utterly impossible state without your care. Now, I have business to attend to with Sweetie Belle and Angel. There is a sealed funerary urn in my saddlebag; would you mind placing it with the rest of the essential salts in the second dungeon? Among the mages, I think—next to Pegacelsus would be appropriate.”

“Aye,” said the ghoul. Sassaflash gave a curt nod of satisfaction, and then swept out the door, leaving her associate standing there in the pallid corpselight of the cathode lantern, a pensive expression on his hyena-like face. At length he murmured, “Such concern for this mule of hers...and all these ‘would ye mind’s and ‘thank ye’s! Thou’rt changed, necromancer. Thou’rt changed.” He gave a lopsided shrug, and shuffled over to the Dark Lord’s saddlebag, lying in the shadow of a stack of grimoires.

The shadows falling on Haybale Lane had grown long and deep when the stillness of the narrow side street was disturbed by a dark-clad pony, slinking past one crooked building after another. She came to a halt in front of number 108, and with with a series of metallic clicks and creaks undid the door’s multiple locks. She stepped into a chamber dark as the caverns beneath Voormithadreth; evidently Crowded Parchment had taken his leave. Letting her cloak slide to the dusty floor, Sassaflash felt her way around the books to the lantern. She turned it on, and for several seconds stared into the phosphorescent tube, her face a tired blank. Then a small frown flitted across her face, and raising a hoof she turned the light off again and headed for the spiraling wooden stairs leading down to the tunneled chambers beneath her home.

The heavy padlocked door creaked open, carrying the faint but stinging odor of preservative chemicals, the fire of foreign herbs, and other less identifiable scents with it as it swung wide. Sassaflash closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Amber and formaldehyde, brimstone and rue, rosemary and rotting flesh (presumably Crowded Parchment had gotten at the chipmunks again)...The smells of home. The smells of her foalhood too, for that matter. Half-forgotten scenes swam through the darkness, their faded colors brightening and their smells, sounds, and sensations sharpening to new life, free at last to be recalled and revisited now that the stifling blanket of worrywort had been lifted.

Whether it was the scent of the rosemary or the deceased chipmunk that brought the thought back, she couldn’t say, but she found herself suddenly remembering an early spring morning, when languid ropes of mist drifted among the dark and silent pines clustering in the gorge of the Hollow Shades. Her hooves had been moist with dew as she stumbled through the woods, following the slender grey figure of her mother, soft and shadowless in the twilight. The pegasus mare turned to look back at her daughter, a familiar half-smile on her aquiline face. The filly had been scurrying to her side when her nose had wrinkled at a subtle hint of decay. She had paused and looked around her. There. Hidden from scent and sight beneath a clump of wild rosemary lay the stiff body of a red squirrel, staring into nothingness with sightless eyes. As she watched, a black burying beetle, its elytra splashed with vivid cardinal patches, whirred down from out of the mist and landed beside the little corpse.

She had found a body. She had found a body! This would be perfect for the revival of that ancient Kesmetian cat mummy. “Mama! Mama! Come see, Mama! I found a body! A real, live body!”

“It doesn’t look very ‘live,’ my little ghoul,” smiled her mother, stepping over to her side.

She had shaken her head in exasperation. “You know what I meant. Is it a good one, Mama?”

The grey mare had knelt beside the little carcass and given it a cautious sniff, before bestowing a warm, proud smile on her daughter. “A very good one. We might even be able to use this without balancing the ratios. You’ve got a wonderful nose; I can hardly smell it at all!” Turning, she had withdrawn a thick cloth from an exterior pocket on her saddlebag, and with it held like an oven grip in her mouth, she scooped the prize up by one stiff leg and tossed it into her saddlebag. Tucking the cloth away again, she had continued, “Now, let’s keep looking. We need to find more than just raw materials, you know.”

“I know, Mama.” She trotted after the graceful mare, excited and shivering in the pre-dawn chill. “Like hemlock! Can we get hemlock next? I know we don’t really need it, but I’ve been practicing how to harvest it right with Princess Platinum’s Lace, and I really want to try it on the real thing.”

“We’ll see, little ghoul.”

Sassaflash blinked in the darkness of her home, an unaccountable stinging sensation in her eyes. The memory itself wasn’t new; she’d always known that that had happened. But before it had been...grayed out. A series of emotionless events, a dull goodness buried in her mind alongside the dull pain of her mother’s death. Now, though, it was—now was different.

The mare stumbled forward, edging down the steps to the stone flags of the dungeon in uncertain fits and starts. It had just been pain when she had first run out of worrywort, pure, senseless, mindless pain—but now the reasons for the pain were unfolding one by one in her mind, burning like orchids and birds of paradise among the leaves of a southern jungle. It hurt her, yes—but it was a sweet, melodious pain.

Holding her hoof beneath a sconce driven into the wall, the Dark Lord muttered, “fm’latgh,” and a burst of fire erupted upwards into the scorched chunks of wood resting in the iron brazier, setting them alight. Warm, flickering light rushed out into the room, swatting back the shadows and revealing a small stone chamber, tidy except for the layer of dust and cobwebs that had accumulated in the months of her absence. The writing desk and washbasin, the simple brown Nippony bed roll in a corner, and of course the small stack of books beside it—a dog-eared copy of the Hieron Kesmaion, the Book of the Climbing Lights, and the Liber Ivanner, among others. Nothing too heavy, just bedside reading—were all where she had left them. Even the little teacup perched atop the books was still there, crusted with dried worrywort dregs.

The Dark Lord stared at the teacup, its rim stained with forgetfulness. She started to turn, as if to make her way back to the stairs coiling up to the library and the adjacent kitchen, but hesitated. Then, moving with the slow uncertainty of a waking dreamer, she turned away from the door.

The scent of rosemary and carrion drifted on the air.

Author's Note

Hm. Well, my comment about more Sweetie Belle details coming forth this chapter turned out to be a lie, unfortunately (next chapter. I promise), and this'un is a bit short, but I hope it serves, nonetheless. Enjoy!

Chapter 16

Beneath a Dreaming moon stood the Dark Lord Sassaflash, gazing out over the lazy, low mounds of the grassy hills that huddled around the wandering river Skai. Behind her crouched the mass of dark trees from which she had emerged. A small pair of glowing amber eyes with wriggling pupils like a cuttlefish’s peered at her from out of the gloom, wide and unblinking. They had been following her since she had emerged from the Seven Hundred Steps in the middle of the wood, but as the little zoog was alone and hadn’t seemed particularly hungry, she had ignored it. It wouldn’t be likely to follow her beyond the borders of the trees, in any case.

And that, reflected the mare, was essentially the extent of her canniness about this world. All she had as guides to this place were a few ancient texts, vague and often mutually contradictory, and all she knew of it from personal experience was the way through the hills that led to the little cabin where the Mule and his wife dwelt. Tall stalks parted around her as she trotted forward onto the grasslands.

It was unacceptable, this ignorance, she thought, as she moved across the rounded hills. When all this was over, if the two of them were willing, she would need to have them show her more of this realm. She wondered idly if Leng was really as inaccessible, and Kadath as unknown, as they were made out to be…

That was all in the future, though. Wending her way past the occasional tussock of grass, their thin stalks silvered and swaying in the moonlight, Sassaflash crested one last hilltop and was rewarded with the sight of the mules’ cabin, nestled snugly in its little hollow. With some trepidation, she trotted down into the dell; her last meeting with the Mule’s wife had been more than a little tense. The latter had had some very strong things to say about the Dark Lord’s schemes, and Sassaflash was not at all sure she would be welcomed inside.

That, though, was immaterial. She needed to find out how the Mule was doing; how serious his injuries were, whether he was being cared for properly, and so on. She could, of course, have waited for the next day and normal visiting hours at the hospital, but she was anxious for news. Stepping up on to the crooked stoop of the little cabin, she raised her forehoof and knocked at the door.

There was an answering beat of hoofsteps from within the house, and a moment later the Mule’s wife swung the door wide. Her smile swiftly faded into an angry scowl at the sight of Sassaflash. “You! What are you doing here?”

The Dark Lord blinked. She had expected disapproval; anger came as a complete surprise. “I—My apologies. I wished to inquire after Mr. Mule. How is he?”

“He’s got a broken leg,” came the curt reply. “And four broken ribs. And something wrong with one of his lungs, though the doctors don’t think it’s serious. All thanks to you and your magic.”

Ah. “I wish it hadn’t happened, Mrs. Mule. It was the only way I could think of to get us back, and—”

“Maybe that’s so, and maybe I’ll say differently later on,” responded the mare, her ears folded back and her tail switching from side to side, “but right now he’s hurting bad, and I’m not in the mood to make allowances. He’s not here now, anyhow; he needs rest--deep, real rest--and he can’t get that when he’s Dreaming. So you’d best be off, necromancer.”

The Dark Lord hesitated, then stepped back off the stoop. “...Very well. My apologies for having disturbed you. I will take my leave.”

A short nod was all the response she got. She turned, and made her way away from the little cabin under the spreading oak, walking the path back to the Gate of Deeper Slumber.

Unfamiliar stars shone in the sky overhead, shaped into strange and alien constellations, and the grass around the teal pegasus swished and hissed in the cold night wind blowing past. A broken leg...she had been right, then. That meant weeks—no, months—of convalescence before the Mule would be able to make the journey to Canterlot. Something else would have to be arranged. She would need to speak with her minion, and discuss options. Waiting that long, with the whole matter suspended in uncertainty as it was, was utterly unacceptable. Somepony else might be sent, perhaps…

“Nay,” said Crowded Parchment, and slurped another strip of loose, rotting flesh from the decaying fish clutched in his claw.

With a supreme effort of will, Sassaflash managed to keep herself from gagging at the odor of the ghoul’s profoundly overripe meal, and batted some kind of small, biting fly away from her flank with a swish of her tail. She’d never liked coming to Froggy Bottom Bog, but it was out of the way, and made a good place to meet Crowded Parchment during daylight hours. “And why not? As a ghoul, you are the only other Dreamer I know, and if Celestia does choose to have my emissary followed, she would never think to look for a rendezvous in the Dreamlands. You are my only option.”

The ghoul chewed thoughtfully, looking vaguely out over the stagnant bog. Off in the distance, a string of V-shaped ripples slid lazily across the water’s surface. “I travel not,” he said, at length, and took another bite of the fish, scattering scales among the sphagnum and bog-bean. “Thou knowest that.”

“Yes, yes. But this is important.”

A sharp-toothed smile. “Aye! But so was thy quest to entrap the Sleeper of N’kai, and I spake likewise then. I am not thy minion, necromancer, and not thy friend, though thou hast earned my aid, when I can give it. But I cannot give it here.”

Sassaflash scowled. “Will not, you mean.”

“If thou likest,” responded Crowded Parchment. With a snap of jagged molars and a gristly pop, he sheared the fish’s skull off its body and began to chew it, the bones crunching in his mouth. The Dark Lord brooded, occasionally flicking her tail forward to drive off the flies.

At length, she murmured, “Of course, when I made that promise, neither of us imagined that the delay would be of any great duration…”

Lifting a scabrous eyebrow, the ghoul said, “If thou followest my counsel, thou wilt be patient, and keep thy promise. Thy minion has the right of it, methinks.”

“Hrmph. Perhaps so. And I did give my word. That should mean something. It does mean something, of course. Certainly.” She stared absently off across the bog. The distant ripples reappeared, this time gliding away from them, off into the early morning mists. Turning to the creature beside her, she asked, “What makes those ripples there, do you know? They seem too large to be a fish, but too small to be the hydra.”

“Those?” Crowded Parchment’s gaze followed Sassaflash‘s outstretched hoof, and he gave a dismissive little snort. “Pay it no heed, ‘tis only the water pony.” He paused, eyeing the mare sitting beside him, and added—a bit too pointedly, in Sassaflash‘s opinion—“She is hasty, and a fool.”

The next few weeks were some of the longest in Sassaflash‘s life. One by one, she considered and rejected alternative means of prying into Celestia’s motives without giving herself away. Letters could be traced. Waking messengers could be shadowed. Pigeons could be followed. Bribed reporters could betray. Training mice to listen to the princess talk in her sleep was a stupid, stupid idea. Ditto rats. She had inquired into the possibility of the Mule hobbling around with the aid of some sort of wheeled device, and was told very emphatically that until the slender bones of his leg had at least partially knitted together, it was out of the question—unless, of course, she wished for the Mule to have to use such a device permanently. She left the hospital that day muttering curses against equine anatomy.

“—Like a barrel on four toothpicks. Ridiculous.” Sassaflash slammed the door of her lair behind her. With an exasperated sigh she shrugged her saddlebag into a dusty corner, and edged around the books into her cramped little kitchen, the sink piled high with dirty dishes and a curious and not entirely appealing odor drifting in the air. Lifting some wheatgrass from an iron hook in her pantry, she hunched herself up on one of the crooked little benches in the room and began to flip idly through a book on thaumic siphons, her habitual scowl a little deeper than usual as she munched on a mouthful of grass..

One in Voormithadreth. That was the source. One in the Canterhorn basin. That was the sink. Between the two all the reality-warping energies of Tsathoggua would be channeled, draining away into the magic-less pit that was the swamp surrounding the Canterhorn. Only for a moment, of course. The Sleeper of N’kai was no petty demon, to be overthrown so readily. After the first shock its will would surge forward, grasping, hungry, and inexorable, and gather the churning waves of unreality back around it once more. Unless, of course…

Blast it. It was so close. Curse that promise! All she had to do was reach out and take the chance, shatter Discord’s prison, unleash him on the royal sisters, and everything she’d ever hoped for would be within her grasp. Celestia’s tyranny would end. Death would die.

She would see her mother again.

The pegasus flipped the book shut, and rose to her hooves. Trotting out of the kitchen and back into the library, she made her way over to the iron-barred cabinet in which her most dangerous books were kept, bolted away so that their malign influence might be at least somewhat restrained. Standing before it, she stretched her left wing wide and ruffled her feathers, shaking them apart so that a cloth sack, hidden beneath her coverts and held by a thin cord near the skin beneath her feathers, dangled free. From this she withdrew a heavy key, wrought of some metal darker than iron, and grasping it in her mouth fitted it into the keyhole of a small drawer beneath the main bookshelves of the cabinet.

It was at this point that, showing her usual excellent timing, Sweetie Belle chose to knock on the front door and squeak, “Miss Sassaflash! I got the poison joke you wanted! I got a little on me, though, so, um…” Her voice trailed off.

Sassaflash gave an idle flick of her wingtip and muttered something under her breath, and the locks on the door snapped open, one after another. “The door is open, Sweetie Belle. The poison joke goes in its usual place, and the antidote should also be in its usual place. Try to be economical in your use of it; next month’s shipment won’t arrive for several weeks, and you’ve already gone through three packets.” She swiped her hoof down, turning the key and locking the drawer again. No sense in risking something happening to the conduit before its debut in Canterlot.

After a few muffled thuds and high-pitched exclamations, there was a click, and the front door swung wide. Sweetie Belle slid inside, propelling herself on her belly across the floor with her hind legs, her forelegs dangling limp and boneless at her side and the strap of a bag filled with vivid blue leaves trailing from her mouth. “I wish it didn’t always do this. Scootaloo’s lucky, poison joke just gives her a beak and makes her cluck a lot.”

Sassaflash turned, and started. “Oh, for...You didn’t tell me it had already taken effect! Let me take that.”

“Really, I can do it, it’s just--”

“Don’t be absurd. Your efforts to be self-reliant are commendable, but they can be carried to excess. I’ll start the water boiling.” The Dark Lord turned and, careful not to let any of the blue leaves touch her body, trotted into the kitchen followed by Sweetie Belle, scooting with surprising facility across the worn floor.

After a few false starts and upsets, Sweetie Belle managed to worm her way up on to a chair, knocking a few papers off the top as she squirmed into a comfortable position and propped herself upright. Looking over at her mentor, who was currently rummaging for another pot after discovering that the bottom of the first one she had grabbed had rusted through, the little unicorn asked, “So...is it ready? You said your plan would be ready when you came back, and you’d fix everything, and everypony would live forever. And, um, you’re back now. So…?”

“No, Sweetie Belle, it’s not ready yet. Or it is, but—Oh, never mind. My hooves are tied.” She shot a ferocious glare at the pot of water she’d set on the stove, as if she hoped to intimidate it into a boil.

Sassaflash‘s acolyte tilted her head in puzzlement. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Never mind, I said. It’s not important.”

“Oh.” She was pretty sure that whatever it was was important, but the unicorn filly wisely elected not to pursue the subject. She didn’t particularly fancy just sitting there while Sassaflash glowered evilly at the simmering water, though, so after an uncomfortable minute or two of silence she spoke up again, bringing up a subject that had been very much on her mind for most of the past week or so. It would do Miss Sassaflash good, she thought, to hear about something unrelated to her work. “Miss Cheerilee is taking our whole class on a field trip to Canterlot!”

The Dark Lord observed that that sounded lovely. The water, evidently knowing what was good for it, immediately erupted into a lively boil. Sweetie Belle, somewhat disappointed by her mentor’s unenthusiastic response but determined to make a game try of it, prattled on.

“Yeah! We’re taking the evening train out today, and then tomorrow we’re going to visit the Wonderbolts stadium, and the castle library, and the sculpture garden, and even the throne room! Then Miss Cheerilee said we’d go out for donuts if we were good, and—”

Sweetie Belle’s words finally sank into Sassaflash‘s brain, and she started upright, nearly spilling the bowl of broth she had poured out for the poison joke-afflicted foal. “Wait, what was that? Before the throne room. Where did you say you were going?”

“The library? Yeah, Twist is really excited, she heard that there’s an original edition of all the Sherclop Holmes books there, and Scootaloo wants to—”

“Not the library!” Sassaflash waved an exasperated hoof. “Why in Equestria would I be interested in the library?”

Sweetie Belle glanced around the kitchen. Half of the shelves had been given over to books that had overflowed from the next room, and dusty stacks of stained tomes rose up here and there in odd clusters on the floor. Sassaflash herself was sitting on a tattered copy of Leafy Liches: Necromancy in the Vegetable Kingdom. “I, um, don’t know. Um. So you meant...the sculpture garden?”

To her relief, she appeared to have hit on the right answer. Sassaflash‘s earlier irritation had evaporated, replaced by an almost fervid interest. “Yes, yes. The sculpture garden. You’ll be visiting there? This is ideal, you can take the conduit there and trigger—” She stopped herself, a look of powerless fury on her face. “No. No, never mind, never mind, of course you can’t. Curse him!”

One ear cocked in bemusement, the filly hazarded, “So, you want me to bring something to Canterlot, except...you don’t? Or something?”

“Drink your broth, Sweetie Belle. Just...drink your broth.”

She wasn’t being fair to the filly, she knew. Sweetie Belle deserved more than curt words and unexplained anger. As she helped her acolyte off the chair, though, and watched her struggle to her once-more-functional hooves, she couldn’t help but rage at the unfairness of it all. By this time tomorrow, she could have had all the actors in play, and the grand performance rolling towards its inevitable conclusion. Instead, thanks to her minion’s ridiculously charitable interpretation of Celestia’s motives and her own foolish weak-mindedness, she could do nothing but wait, wait, wait—while, perhaps, Tsathoggua discovered and destroyed the thaumic siphon she had left beneath Voormithadreth, or the spell on the outlet she had tossed from the train into the Canterhorn basin deteriorated.

Sweetie Belle, satisfied that the poison joke’s effects were completely gone, managed an awkward smile and said, “I kinda need to finish my packing for the trip, so if it’s okay I’m gonna go now.”

If it weren’t for her promise, things would be so easy. All this uncertainty and doubt and risk would just vanish. Celestia would fall. Time would be at her command. Her mother would live. “Yes, yes. See you tomorrow. Or rather not, of course. Enjoy Canterlot.”

“Right.” The filly hesitated at the door. “You’re sure you don’t want me to take...whatever it was with me? I don’t mind.”

If it weren’t for her promise. “I’m sure, Sweetie Belle. Goodbye.”

Her acolyte half-smiled, and then closed the door. The locks began to fall into place, clicking shut automatically as Sassaflash had designed them to do. One after another, metal bars slid into metal slots, locking, barring, closing, shutting out the future with every turn of the catches…

And then suddenly Sassaflash was at the door, frantically scrabbling to undo the locks, drag them open. She had to get out. She had to get to Sweetie Belle before it was too late. The last catch dangled free, and the pegasus careened out, her hooves skidding on the cobbles. Her acolyte, only a little ways up the street, turned at the sound of the Dark Lord’s arrival.

“Sweetie Belle, wait! Wait. There is something. I need you to carry something with you to Canterlot. To the sculpture garden. To a very particular sculpture within that garden…”

The Dark Lord slept well that night. Which was not, of course, surprising to her. Certainly not. She had done the right and sensible thing. Her promise really couldn’t even have been considered binding at that point, considering how conditions had changed, and no doubt the Mule would understand that she really hadn’t had a choice. He was reasonable. He wouldn’t hold a grudge. Not that he would have had a reason to. She’d done nothing wrong.

Absolutely nothing.

So, Sassaflash told herself, lying awake on her bedroll at 3:30 AM and staring vacantly at the ceiling, it wasn’t at all surprising that she was sleeping so remarkably well. She happened to be awake now, yes, but one often woke up in the middle of the night for brief periods of time. It didn’t mean anything. She’d only been awake for a few minutes. Or, she corrected herself, propping herself up on one foreleg and peering at the antique clock lying face-up on the stone floor of her chamber, two hours. Close enough.

She rolled over on to her side, willing her mind to drift along the channels that would lead to the Dreamlands. She had been meaning to see more of the place, somewhere other than the cottage of the two mules. Now was as good a time as any. Her eyes closed…

The passage of thirty minutes found the pegasus mare wandering beneath the eaves of the dreamwood, the dank, leathery leaves of the canopy overhead blotting out the stars. She winced as another long, wiry loop of thorns scraped against her side, and edged a little further away from the tangled depths of the wood--but not so far as to expose herself to the night sky. The stars burned with a peculiarly piercing light, unblinking and remorseless—quite unlike the gentle spangling of light with which Luna usually decorated the heavens. The darkness between them was too deep, and their light too unforgiving. She didn’t want them to see her.

She turned, suddenly sick of these claustrophobic woods and the bare, wide expanse beyond them. She wanted to go home. She wanted to sleep, with no dreams and no Dreams, just good, deep sleep. Bracken and dead leaves crunching underhoof, she hurried back the way she had come, towards the little winding path that lead through the trees to the Gate of Deeper Slumber, and the way back to wakefulness—or to a more restful sleep. It took her little time to find her way back, and trot into the forest along the shadowed trail, and she had almost reached the Gate when she heard, through the gloom ahead of her, the sound of approaching hoofsteps. She stopped, waiting, and before long a figure became visible in the darkness, familiar, knob-kneed, and long-eared. It was the Mule.

“Miss Sassaflash!” The Mule halted, surprised. “I didn’t know you was here. You been visiting Missus Mule?”

She had done nothing wrong. “Mr. Mule. No, I wasn’t—I was merely exploring the area. I thought it prudent to learn more of this place than the way to and from your cabin. But the walk proved less pleasant than I expected, so I’m going back to sleep—normal sleep, that is. A good night to you.”

She waited for him to move out of her way, but the Mule apparently didn’t pick up on the hint. Instead, he gave concerned whistle, and said, “All on your lonesome, in the Dreamlands? Miss Sassaflash, that ain’t safe! They’s zoogs, and vooniths in the river, and all manner o’ beastes. Even when everthing’s right, you shouldn’t ought to be wandering alone, but when you’s in a stew over something, it can get right dangerous.”

With an irritated swish of her tail, Sassaflash said, “A stew? I’m not in a stew. I am perfectly calm. Regardless, as I said, I wish to go back to sleep, so if you could step out of the way…”

“Well, alright.” The Mule edged to one side. “But you ain’t calm. They’s brambles and stickerbushes all over the place. The Dreamlands reflects what’s inside, as you might say.” He hesitated a moment, and then continued, in a quieter voice, “I knows it ain’t easy for you, Miss Sassaflash, a-waitin’ like this, and I’m real grateful you been so patient. I been getting better fast, though. As a matter o’ fact, I come down here tonight to tell Missus Mule that I been practicing on crutches, and the doctor reckons I should be able to move around purty well in a few days or so! I reckon I could do it now, but he wants to be careful.”

So it hadn’t even been necessary! Well, it had seemed so at the time, at least. She’d done nothing wrong. “That’s—that’s wonderful news! Excellent. Very good. I am delighted to hear it.”

Tilting his head in puzzlement, one long ear flopping over to one side, the Mule said, “You don’t sound delighted.”

“My apologies, Mr. Mule, if my vocal productions fail to meet with your exacting standards! Naturally I am delighted. It will be, I imagine, a great relief for you to be up and about again.”

“And I can go to Canterlot and talk to Princess Celestia,” prompted the Mule.

“Yes,” said Sassaflash. “You can.”

There was a long pause. Something twittered in the shadows of a particularly hefty tree, and orange, molluscan eyes blinked in the darkness to one side of the trail. Sassaflash turned to leave. “Well! Excellent news. You will, of course, want to convey it to your wife, and far be it from me to delay you. A good night to you, Mr. Mule. Don’t feel you have to rush your recovery on my account, don’t push yourself, your health is of paramount importance, I hope that—”

“Miss Sassaflash,” asked the Mule, “what’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. All is well.”

“But it ain’t, though!” Not for the first time, Sassaflash quietly cursed the Mule’s stubborn perspicacity. The old creature shuffled forward, trying to catch a glimpse of her eyes in the shadows. “Something bad happened. Miss Sweetie Belle’s alright, ain’t she? They ain’t nothing that’s happened to her?”

“My acolyte is in perfect health; in fact, she visited me just this afternoon, and will be taking a trip to Canterlot tomorrow.” She hesitated. “On that subject, actually, there is something that I suppose—not that it matters very much, you understand, it’s only a trivial change in plans. Purely a formality, as it were.”

Slowly, as if he were rolling the words back and forth in his mind to examine them from all sides, the Mule said, “A change in plans?”

Sassaflash nodded. “Quite. The fact of the matter is, Mr. Mule—well. You are reasonable. Surely you can see that the odds of Celestia’s motives being pure are slim. She would have made herself clearer before now. Asking her directly would only have roused her suspicion, and with every day of further delay the odds of something going wrong with the already-placed conduits was increasing. You agree?”

At first the Mule remained silent. After some time, he murmured, a slow, incredulous fear dawning in his voice, “‘Would have.’ ‘Was.’ Miss Sassaflash...What’ve you done?”

“Nothing you would not have done, in my place! I was perfectly within my rights. The conditions of our agreement were very different from what eventuated.”

“You gave something to Miss Sweetie Belle to take to Canterlot,” declared the Mule, his tail curled back against his legs and his ears flattened in horror. His voice rose. “You’re fixing to free Discord! You’re fixing to free Discord, and then it’s a-going to wreck half o’ Equestria afore it’s done!”

“Not a bit of it. The Princesses will stop it—and it will stop them.” She raised her head, proud and defiant. “Then I will save Equestria from death.”

“I can’t believe it.” The Mule stepped forward. “You said you’d wait! You promised you’d wait! I trusted you!”

“That promise was made in fear and uncertainty, and you know it! Why should it be binding? Why should any promise bind me?”

Twigs cracked under the Mule’s hoof as he slammed it against the forest floor, sending startled zoogs scurrying away through the branches. Something took flight, a black shadow that swung overhead and blackened the blazing stars. “Because you’re a good pony, that’s why! Or I thought you was, leastwise! I thought I could trust you! I thought you was my friend!” A long pause, then, his voice cracking at the edges, “Was I wrong?”

For a moment, Sassaflash hesitated. She could just make out his silhouette, his chest heaving in pain and anger, and she remembered how, for once in her life, she had had someone who liked her. Who would help her because he cared for her, not because he was in awe of her, or indebted to her, or because it was convenient. Someone who would have—and had—risked his life for her, and for whom she would have done the same. For once in her life.

No, not just once. Her mother had been her friend, too—her first friend. Her truest. She had to do this. Her face hardened, and in a voice cold as steel, she said, “I will save my mother, and nothing is going to stop me! Not friendship, not promises, not princesses, not Gods, not death itself! You are my minion—and I am the Dark Lord Sassaflash!”

She whipped around, leaves whirling at her sides, and was about to stalk away into the darkness when she heard, faint and distinct, the words, “I ain’t.”

Sassaflash looked over her shoulder. The shadows were too deep, and the stars were invisible. She could see nothing. “What?”

“I ain’t,” repeated the Mule, his voice hard. “I ain’t your minion. I quit.”

“What?” repeated Sassaflash. She understood the words, but somehow she couldn’t seem to fit a meaning to them.

“What I said,” said the voice from the darkness. “I ain’t a-going to work for you no more. I thought they was something in you that was worthwhile. I was wrong. I quit.”

“What do you mean, ‘you quit?’ You can’t quit! Minions don’t quit, they’re dismissed!”

“Goodbye, Miss Sassaflash.” There was a sound of twigs snapping underhoof as the Mule turned and walked off under the shadows of the overhanging trees.

Sassaflash‘s wings slipped to her sides, hanging slack. She swallowed. “You—I refuse to accept your resignation! You are my minion, and I am the Dark Lord Sassaflash! Get—get back here!” The hoofsteps never slackened, never faltered, slowly fading away into the distance. The mare trotted forward several steps, a strange chill crawling along her skin, and cried out, “Come back! I command it! Come back!”

No reply.

“Mule!” She stood there, panting, her eyes wide and her legs shaking, and then screeched, “Fine. Fine! I am the Dark Lord Sass—I don’t need you! I never needed you! I can do this on my own! Go ahead, leave, and see how much I care, you stubborn—knock-kneed— stupid—mule! I don’t need you!”

But there was no response from out of the woods, no sound of hoofsteps, no angry shouts or denials or words at all. Her eyes burning, Sassaflash howled, “Mule!”

Silence.

Chapter 17

The morning was beautiful as only a fine summer’s morning in Canterlot could be. Sunlight glinted in the dewy grass, and a cool breeze ruffled Sweetie Belle’s mane as she trotted after her classmates and teacher through the Canterlot sculpture garden, her heart drumming in her chest as Miss Cheerilee described the statues around them. Normally she would have paid closer attention to what she was saying, but there were more important things ahoof than a Canterlot field trip.

Important. She, Sweetie Belle, was important! “Critical,” even, Miss Sassaflash had said. Her little chest swelled with the thought of it as her friends, who were apparently arguing about something, bickered beside her, and flicker of irritation darted through her mind. Didn’t they know that she, Sweetie Belle, was critical? Applebloom said something something “victoryful” something, and the little unicorn, exasperated, snapped, “That’s not a word!”

Her other friend, Scootaloo, looked over. “What are you, a dictionary?”

Sweetie Belle was about to give a really cutting retort—”No, I’m critical!”—when Miss Cheerilee called “Girls!” in a tone that very clearly said that there would be trouble if there was any further squabbling. Truce, for now. The three fillies trotted after the rest of their class, who had gathered around a twisting, surreal sculpture.

This was it. This was it! Sweetie Belle’s eyes widened as she gazed up at the kaleidoscopic monster rearing above their heads. It was just like Miss Sassaflash had described; mismatched horns, a writhing, serpentine body, hooves and claws and paws and wings, all jumbled together into one insane, chimerical beast...Her teacher asked what they noticed about it. Applebloom mentioned its eagle claw. Scootaloo pointed out the lion paw. Sweetie Belle jumped up, squeaking, “And a snake tail!” This was perfect! She reached up a hoof and surreptitiously felt at the thin, carved clay rod wound into her mane, brimming with a power that made her horn ache. All she had to do was snap it in half, close by to the statue. Her teacher, seeing that they were all gathered around, raised her voice so that they could all hear her.

“This creature is called a draconequus. He has the head of a pony, and a body made up of all sorts of things. What do you suppose that represents?”

Ooh! She knew the answer to this one! Miss Sassaflash had told her, back before she left, when she’d asked what the statue was like. The pegasus had paused, considering, and then said, “It has an evil look to it. Its head…” And then there had been that long description that Sweetie Belle had only half listened to, because come on, how many statues like that could there be in the sculpture gardens? It didn’t sound like it was exactly normal-looking. Drawing a breath, the unicorn filly said...

...Nothing, because Applebloom spoke up first. “Confusion!”

That wasn’t right at all, though! Sweetie Belle pushed her friend aside, and just managed to squeak out “Evil!” before Scootaloo, in turn, shouldered her way forward and expressed her opinion that the statue represented chaos.

For a moment Sweetie Belle considered just letting bygones be bygones—Miss Cheerilee had already scolded them once, and she didn’t want to cross any lines—but then a cunning plan sprang into her mind. A fight! That would be the perfect time to break the conduit without anypony noticing. With as much contempt as she could manage, the Dark Lord’s acolyte said, “It’s not chaos, you dodo!”

“Don’t call me things I don’t know the meaning of—and it is too chaos!”

“Is not!”

Applebloom, not to be left out, jumped forward. “You’re both wrong!”

The battle was joined! Sweetie Belle jumped at Applebloom and knocked her to the ground, Scootaloo bit the little unicorn’s tail, Applebloom gave Scootaloo’s ear a smarting blow with her hoof, Scootaloo kicked Applebloom’s shins, and in the midst of the confusion Sweetie Belle head-butted Scootaloo, angling her head just right so that the thin clay rod snapped in half with a sharp crack that was buried under the sounds of the fray.

A spidery, trailing rune coiling its way along the two halves of the broken rod flared, burning with an indescribable color, and as it burned other runes, woven around and through space itself, burst into heatless flame. Magical buffers and barriers crumbled. Walls fell. Distances shuddered and collapsed. A link opened, connecting the Canterlot sculpture garden both with the abnormally real swamp surrounding the Canterhorn and with distant Tsathoggua, swollen and fatted on unreality. All around the petrified draconequus, space buckled and twisted invisibly, ripping open in a silent torment that the gathered ponies sensed as, at most, perhaps a stray wisp of wind or the faint, whining echo of a sound like hooves being drawn across a blackboard.

Miss Cheerilee stepped forward. “Actually, in a way you’re all right.” The fighting ceased, and three slightly bruised fillies looked up in confusion. Continuing, their teacher said, “This statue represents discord, which means a lack of harmony between ponies.” She paused. “In fact, you three have demonstrated discord so well, you’re each going to write me an essay explaining it.”

Sweetie Belle’s face fell. Darn. She just knew they weren’t going to get away with that without some kind of punishment. Oh, well. It’s not like anything really bad had happened.

Beneath the icy pinnacles of Voormithadreth, buried in the endless wastes of Hippoborea, the God Tsathoggua dozed in divine languor. Its ancient dreams continued undisturbed, and Its eternal hunger gnawed It as it ever had. Some day—some year—some eon—the stars would again be right, and then It would grasp hold of the mountain’s roots and blast them to shivered fragments, wrenching the millions of tons of rock above Its head aside and opening a gate to the surface world. It would erupt out of the depths, ravening and terrible, and none save, perhaps, Dead Cthulhu Itself would be able to stay Its hunger, or waylay the flood of liquid death that would pour forth from the depths to gather stone, air, trees, fish, mountains, ponies, and all else to sate the appetite of great Tsathoggua.

Black things splashed and slithered in the choking darkness around the God’s reclining bulk, whispering poison to one another. Occasionally a shivering ripple would slide across their tarry surfaces, as though they had been struck by a chilling breeze or had felt a hint of some presence other than their Master and Parent. They were disturbed. A pony had come to the depths, bearing witness to Cthulhu’s Eye—and then, somehow, it had shielded its mind, so that while it still knew the piercing sigil, they were no longer able to perceive its thoughts through that window. It had escaped. It had threatened them with the Eye of Cthulhu, and in their bafflement it had escaped. They were small, and it had been small, and so their thoughts dwelled on the tiny intruder, while the latent apocalypse that was Tsathoggua slumbered far, far above, indifferently awaiting the rightness of stars.

Some day.

But the stars were not right, and so Tsathoggua still waited, wrapped safely in Its web of unreality and confident in Its might. Let the cosmos—Yog-Sothoth, the All in One and the One in All, the Most Prolonged of Life—rage in the wastes beyond; that Power could never touch Tsathoggua in the artificial universe It had crafted for Itself. Nothing could ever touch it. It was in no hurry. It had all of eternity, after all.

Then, quite abruptly, all unreality vanished from under Voormithadreth.

A hunger vaster and older than even Tsathoggua’s howled up out of the gaping rift in the cosmos, fanged and fierce. Tsathoggua’s black, liquescent spawn flashed into nothingness like rain in the heart of a volcano, boiling out of existence as a hundred million years of accumulated unluck—the wrath of Yog-Sothoth—slammed into them. Ancient perversions of unreality running through the bulk of Voormithadreth were torn loose, and the mountain shrieked as all its massive weight fell upon it, no longer supported by Tsathoggua’s spells. The walls of the Toad God’s chamber imploded. Rock materialized, then vanished, then erupted out as a molten spray that hissed into incandescent vapor, leaping through the burning air in hundred-yard plumes. Great cracks arced up the flanks of the mountain, and in a slow, grinding plunge it began to capsize, its four peaks shifting and sliding into the cavernous depths.

Tsathoggua screamed.

Voormithadreth exploded.

At the center of a maelstrom of white-hot plasma and whirling vortices of Being and Unbeing, Tsathoggua struggled, fighting to regain its balance. It was and had always been a Thing that should not be, and for an instant It had been afraid—afraid!—that It would fall. But that danger was past. It was not a Great Old One for nothing, and it would take more than this to destroy it. Tendrils of magic lashed out, binding Its unholy self back into existence. It would weather this storm, as It had all others, and whatever had done this to It would be destroyed, never to threaten It again.

And then the second attack came. A thousand leagues and more away, Discord had felt the flood of magic, more powerful than anything he had ever sensed in his life, pouring over and through and around him in his stony tomb. He didn’t know what it was or where it came from—but after a moment of absolute shock, he decided that now wasn’t the time to ask questions. Reaching out with his mind, Discord, for all intents and purposes a Great Old One in his own right, grappled on to the already-slackening stream of power, and pulled. Hard. Something else was trying to choke the stream of magic off, but he was Discord, Lord of Chaos, and he would not be denied. He drank deeply, filling himself with the unbeing he needed to break free of his prison—with the unbeing draining away from Tsathoggua, and that the God needed to exist.

In the fiery caldera that was all that remained of Voormithadreth, Tsathoggua, already unbalanced, swayed in midair as It desperately clutched at Its hemmorhaging magic. It wasn’t enough. Withdrawing the remaining webs of power that kept it aloft, Tsathoggua focused them all on the deific tug-of-war, letting Itself collapse in majestic ruin to the boiling floor of the crater.

It wasn’t enough. Matter flowed away from the God’s body, exploding in the intense heat as Tsathoggua abandoned Its form, Its mind, Its being, everything but Its frantic struggle for existence.

It wasn’t enough.

The God gave one last, wailing howl of anger, fear, and despair, and the remaining threads of magic protecting the Great Old One from the will of the cosmos were shredded. The hammer of Yog-Sothoth descended.

A God perished.

A God awoke.

The morning was still just as beautiful as might be wished. At least, so Princess Celestia was informed. She’d done her part to make it so, of course—the Sun was up, right on schedule, and to her mind she had done a rather nice job with that particular dawn—but the pegasi sometimes made mistakes, and sometimes schedules got mixed up, and one got rain instead of shine, or snow instead of mist. Or tornadoes instead of clouds; ponies were still occasionally finding little pieces of the old castle from that incident in 393, buried in the soil miles away from the Canterhorn.

But evidently no miscommunication had happened today, and everything was as it should be. A slight smile crossed the tall alicorn’s face, and she returned her attention to the letter hovering in the air in front of her, raising one hoof to push a drifting wisp of her mane out of her eyes.

Then, without any warning of any kind, something broke or snapped in the fabric of reality, far, far away. The princess gasped as the shockwave swept by, jarring her bones and sending a stabbing bolt of pain up her horn. A moment later it was gone, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.

The letter fluttered to the floor. Celestia glanced around. Her secretary, a unicorn, was still quietly transcribing her shortform notes from the morning meeting into long script for the archives. She’d evidently felt nothing. Whatever it had been was too subtle for ordinary unicorns to sense; too far away, perhaps. Or maybe just something they couldn’t pick up. Lifting the letter and placing it back on the neat stack of the morning’s correspondence, she closed her eyes and sent her senses spreading out, seeking for any change, any difference.

She didn’t have to seek far. Almost at once, she became aware of a strange alteration, as though some fundamental part of the world had shifted. What in Equestria? She cast her mind further, and found part of the change, at least, almost immediately. A tremendous wash of magic lay in billowing pools in the swamp surrounding the Canterhorn, almost bringing the normally magic-less place to typical background levels of magic. It wasn’t the Shepherd’s doing; she could feel the ancient entity now, a locus of power striding through the swamp and erasing the unreality around him. Besides, there was more; this was just the backwash from some greater, more distant event. She cast her mind further, searching the Everfree, the Hollow Shades, the Sintered Lands...Nothing. Everything seemed placid, clean, and pure, as right as it could possibly be.

Pure. Yes, that was the word. It was too pure; there was something missing, a foulness that had dissolved into light. Part of an ancient evil, something so old that she scarcely noticed its shadow anymore, though she thought of it often, had disappeared. A wild thought crossed her mind, and she sent her thoughts further afield, across the Western Ocean to the site of an unfathomably old city, lying sunken beneath the waves—No. No, Cthulhu wgah’n R’lyeh. Her thoughts darted elsewhere. Nug and Yeb yet labored beneath a forgotten ruin in Saddle Arabia. Yig still crept through the wild places of the world, capricious and feral. Tsathoggua—

—Was gone. Just...gone. The alicorn’s eyes drifted open in numb shock. How was that possible? It must be a mistake. Great Old Ones didn’t just disappear. But if it was a mistake, what had happened? Had Tsathoggua shielded Its presence for some reason?

One of the throne room’s grand double doors slid partly open, and one of the castle pages entered and approached the throne. He said something; she didn’t quite catch what. Celestia raised her head automatically, her mind still a thousand leagues away, and saw the page looking expectantly at her. She blinked. “I’m terribly sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“Of course, your highness,” said the page, with a quick bow. “There is a strange pony who wishes to speak with you. He did not give a name, but said that you would want to see him.” Seeing her confused expression, he added, sheepishly, “I would have sent him away, of course, to make a proper appointment, but—well, the fact of the matter is, he just appeared in the reception chamber. I don’t know how he got in, or got past the guards. I just glanced away for a moment, and when I looked back he was sitting on one of the couches as if he had been there for hours. The door didn’t open, I’m sure of it.”

“I see.” The princess’ thoughts were already drifting back to the disappearance of Tsathoggua. Somewhat vaguely, she asked, “And he gave no name?”

“Not precisely. I told him, of course, that I could not announce him without a name, and he responded by asking me which of his names I would like. He said he had thousands.” The page paused. “Princess? Are you all right?”

No, thought Celestia, I am not all right at all. Hoping desperately that the mad suspicion that had leapt into her mind was false, she asked, “Thousands? He said he had thousands of names?”

“Yes. Is anything—”

“What color was his coat? What was his cutie mark?”

“Black,” answered the page, taken aback by the urgency in the princess’ voice. “He had a black coat. And I think he had painted over his cutie mark or covered it with soot; it looked like he didn’t have one at all. Your highness? Your highness!”

Celestia leapt from her throne, moving faster than she had in years. “Get out. Show Him in, and then get as far away as possible. Dismiss the guards. I must see Him alone. Raven,” she said, looking over her shoulder at her bewildered secretary, “You’re dismissed as well. Go home. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to return.” They hesitated, confused, and Celestia slammed her hoof against the floor. “Hurry!”

“Your highness, if this stranger is dangerous, it would be wise to keep at least several guards present, in case—”

“Do as I say.”

They did as she said. For a moment the alicorn considered stepping down from the dais to meet Him at the door, but she thought better of it. It wasn’t as though the Outer Gods cared one way or another, and she would not abase herself before their soul and messenger any more than she had to. Stepping back, she seated herself on her throne, and waited, heart beating wildly and a cold chill clinging to her flesh. The doors swung wide.

He was tall, just as she remembered, and His body was lean, muscular, and black as a starless night. Dark, appraising eyes, half-lidded and callous, passed slowly over the room as He strolled towards her. His gaze lingered on the stained glass windows, slid lazily past Celestia herself to the tapestries hanging above her throne, and then drifted over to the remnants of Raven’s morning work, lying abandoned beside the throne. He came to a halt directly in front of the princess, glanced briefly at her, and then looked to his left at the stained glass on the other side of the hall. Fighting to keep the fear out of her voice, Celestia spoke.

“I swear we don’t know what happened to Tsathoggua. Luna and I had nothing to do with it.”

She flinched. She could feel His attention focusing on her, cold and distant as the depths of space. He considered her in silence for a moment, staring into her soul with fathomless black eyes, and then spoke in a slow, languid drawl. “You don’t know what happened. Your sister knows—or knew.”

“What do you mean?” She wasn’t going to notice the past tense. She wasn’t going to allow herself to notice the past tense. She was letting her fears get the best of her. Of course he didn’t mean—

“She knew.” The black stallion tilted his head. “So I killed her.”

The world shattered around Celestia. It couldn’t be true. She had to find her sister. The princess scrambled down from her throne, her breath catching painfully in her throat. “Luna!” Luna had been fine just this morning, she had been sleeping in her chambers, she—”Luna!”

And then suddenly the black stallion was standing in front of the doorway that led up the towers, a tired expression on His face. “Go back to your throne. I didn’t kill her.” He sounded like he was explaining something to a particularly stupid foal.

Celestia froze. “You said—”

The stallion stepped forward, walking back towards the throne, and Celestia automatically stepped out of His way. Without looking at her, He continued, “I was lying.” He stopped. “Or perhaps I wasn’t. Perhaps even now your sister is lying sprawled on her bed, blood dripping from her neck to the floor below. Soaking into the rug. Her eyes open but lifeless, staring at nothing. Body cooling. Stiffening. Perhaps.” He turned, looking back at Celestia, and His eyes narrowed slightly—the first hint of an expression he had shown throughout their meeting. “You don’t know whether to believe me. You’re afraid. Angry.” A pause, and He slowly shook his head. “I thought you might have changed since we last spoke. Become more bold. Stronger. You haven’t.”

Celestia stepped forward. “Why are you doing this? We’ve done nothing! We never broke the rules!”

The visitor made no reply at first, merely staring idly off at one of the stained-glass windows, showing the victory of Celestia and Luna over Discord. At length, He muttered, “The alicorn would have ended Tsathoggua if she could have gotten away with it—but never at this price. Not then, and not now.”

Forcing herself forward, forcing her voice down from a furious, terrified shriek to a controlled monotone, Celestia asked, “What price? What are you talking about?”

No answer. The black stallion stepped up to the window, peering down through it at something below, then turned and began to stroll back the way He had come, towards the doors leading out of the throne room. Without following Him, Celestia asked again, “What price? Answer me!”

The stallion showed no sign that He had even heard her. With a tremendous effort of will, Celestia strode forward, setting herself between the visitor and the door. “Answer me, Nyarlathotep!”

He stopped and looked up at her. His expression was completely unreadable—but Celestia knew what was going through His mind, as surely as if He had told her Himself. He was trying to decide which would be the easiest way to get her to stop bothering Him: to tell her what she wanted to know, or to just kill her.

There was a long, long moment of silence.

Then the being called Nyarlathotep spoke. “Something has defied Us and destroyed Tsathoggua. It did this by using the Night Shepherd's domain to unbalance It, and Discord to drain It. Discord is free.” Nyarlathotep’s eyes narrowed. “Naflhai Y’sgn’wahl, grah’n.”

Celestia stood aside. The doors swung shut. For a moment she made no further movement, staring tensely at the twin doors as though afraid that the messenger would come back through them, and then she reared up and around, and galloped for the stairs that led to Luna’s chambers.

It took Luna at least ten minutes before she could get Celestia to stop sobbing and hugging her and tell her what had happened.

Author's Note

My apologies for leaving y'all hanging with regards to the Mule and Sassaflash; I had been planning to include more this chapter, but...well, structural elements of the overall story got in the way, and I'm limited in how much this chapter can cover. Rest assured, though, much will be dealt with next chapter.

Chapter 18

She didn’t want to be asleep. She didn’t want to be awake. She didn’t want to be. Sassaflash lay on her back staring up at the rafters overhead, numb and empty and wondering when the dawn would come or whether it mattered. It would be the last dawn for several days, of course, until she could organize a group of unicorns and train them in the old solar magics that the ancient Unicornians had once known. Until then, if the ancient legends were true, the Sun and Moon would share the sky, drifting aimlessly around one another in slow, lazy circles and leaving half the world in chilling shadow and half in glaring sunlight. Yes, that would need to be attended to immediately after Celestia and Luna’s fall. Very important. Couldn’t be neglected. She wondered why she was having so much trouble caring.

Some hours later, the weary pegasus woke from a sleep that she hadn’t remembered falling into. It didn’t seem to have done her any good; she still felt exhausted. Still, Sweetie Belle might have already released Discord, and when that had happened she needed to be ready to act as swiftly as possible. Abandoning the idea of getting any real rest, she crawled up out of her pit of a bedroom to see what the world had in store for her.

The noonday Sun greeted her, warm and welcoming. She scowled at it. Discord hadn’t done its work yet, then. At first she thought something might have delayed or stopped her acolyte, but after a few tests back in her lair, she quickly ruled that possibility out: the vast web of hungry, groping unreality that had been oozing across the world from Voormithadreth since time immemorial was utterly and completely gone. Discord had been freed, then, but was...hiding?

The Dark Lord shook her head. Of course it was. She should have expected it. Discord would remember what had happened the last time it had faced Celestia and Luna, and it would be cautious this time, waiting until it could secure the magical Elements of Harmony that had locked it away in the first place. Well, there was no worry on that score. The Elements answered now only to six simple ponies, not the Princesses, and such paltry creatures could hardly be considered a threat to Discord, the Scion of Tartarus. It would soon discover this, and force Celestia and Luna’s hooves.

Until then, though, there was nothing for her to do. Nothing she could do except think, and that hurt. The world felt wrong, as though some fundamental part of it had been ripped away, leaving her clinging in desperate surprise to the remaining fragments. The Mule should be by her side. He was always by her side, honest, plain-spoken, and good. She was a Dark Lord, and he was her minion. That was how it was, and how it should be.

He couldn’t have left. It was all a mistake, somehow. It couldn’t really have happened. Her memory of the pained betrayal in his eyes must be a mistake. Surely he hadn’t pleaded their friendship to her, only for her to brush it haughtily aside? Surely she hadn’t stood there in the darkness of a Dreaming wood, proud and confident in her righteousness, and spat defiance at him? Her friend, her friend, her only friend…

A miserable anger flared within the lonely pegasus—anger at herself, at the Mule, at existence itself. How dare the world arrange itself in such a way? How dare reality conspire to hurt her like this, and to hurt him too? He should have been her ally, standing at her side as she ushered in the dawn of a new golden age. Fire burning in her eyes, the Dark Lord Sassaflash whipped around, tail lashing, and stalked out of her home, bound for the Ponyville hospital. She would talk to him and make him see reason, and then everything would be as it ought to be again.

When Sassaflash arrived at the tidy timber frame hospital, though, she discovered that the Mule was not there. He had left early in the morning, the little white-clad orderly told her, hobbling out the door on a pair of borrowed crutches despite all the doctor’s remonstrances.

Sassaflash stared. “But he isn’t well! He’s just going to hurt himself! Did he say why he left?”

Shaking her head, the orderly replied, “No, not a word. He was very urgent about it, though. He seemed to think it was a matter of life and death. And he was technically well enough to leave; he had just been going to stay a few extra days on Doctor Horse’s recommendation.” She paused. “Excuse me, but are you named Sassaflash?”

Sassaflash confirmed that she was.

“Then he left a message for you. It was just one word: ‘Canterlot.’ I don’t suppose you know what that means?”

The pegasus made no response, staring blankly ahead while her mind whirled. Canterlot. He must have gone there to try to intercept Sweetie Belle before she could awaken Discord. He had failed, obviously enough; Tsathoggua was dead. But the fact that he had tried…

He had really meant it. Everything he said. Sassaflash turned away from the hospital, making her slow way back to her home. It wasn’t a mistake or a misunderstanding. It was all real. For the second time in her life, she had lost somepony she couldn’t bear to lose.

Leaving her alembics and thaumometers behind, she crept back into the darkness of her underground chambers, tail dragging in the dirt. She didn’t want to watch the sky. It probably didn’t matter all that much, anyway. Surely, even buried here underground, she would notice the signs of a war between Gods. The magical echoes of that struggle couldn’t possibly be missed. Feeling her way through the lightless room, she slumped forward on to her pallet and stared into the darkness, tired, miserable, and alone.

In time, her eyes slid shut, and she drifted into strange dreams.

Pain. A dull, cold pain was pressing against Sassaflash‘s mind, heavy and insistent. Floating back up to consciousness, the Dark Lord became aware of some heavy weight pressing against her right hind leg, and an odd pressure at her back. Her eyes flickered open. A weird half-light was filtering down from somewhere below her—no, above her. She was upside down. Why was she upside down?

With an effort, the pegasus pulled her scattered faculties together, trying to grasp what had happened. She couldn’t see very much, and her eyes were stinging for some reason. Her face felt wet. She tried to raise a hoof to wipe whatever it was away from her eyes, and found that she couldn’t; it was trapped under—she twisted her head around, trying to see in the dimness—it was trapped between several beams of wood, covered in mud and grit. She was underground, she thought, or buried under a building. An earthquake? Had her home collapsed on top of her?

Swallowing the panic that had already begun to well up within her, she forced several deep, steady breaths in and out of her lungs, and began to try to work herself loose. By degrees, moving carefully so as not to bring a house’s-worth of wood and earth rushing down to crush her, she managed to wriggle her forehoof free, and after some further exertion managed to work her hind leg out from the heavy beam of wood under which it had been pinned—bruised and bleeding, but thank the stars, not broken. Twisting herself upright, she made a tentative wriggle upwards, towards the light.

Reality everted itself. The thin, winding passage ahead of her remained constant, but everything at her sides shifted away in a contorted blur of shapes and shadows. To her right, the muddy beams were replaced by a network of broken pipes emerging from a sheared-off wall of dirt, while to her left a slab of cracked stone warped and vanished, blending smoothly into a rough incline of shattered crockery, leading up out of the earth to a gap that opened on a twilit sky.

For a moment, Sassaflash remained completely still, frozen in shock. Then she made another tentative movement forward, and everything at her sides morphed again, blending into a different mass of rubble and collapsed housing, while the path ahead and behind her remained the same. She turned, rotating around her own axis. Suddenly everything was stable again—as long as she was turning, and not moving backwards or forwards. Experimentally, she stepped backwards. Again, the same stomach-churning, mind-breaking distortion of space.

The muddy, bleeding pegasus ceased her attempts to move, her breath catching sharp and shallow in her throat. Something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. Was she drugged? Hallucinating? This wasn’t an earthquake. Space itself seemed broken, somehow, and wasn’t acting like it should. She wormed her way forward, and again, everything not directly along her line of motion blended smoothly away into a completely different place, while the areas directly in front and behind her remained the same. She inched backwards, and the old scenery returned. She revised her earlier opinion; space wasn’t broken, it had been rearranged. Everything was still connected, just in a completely different, alien way.

Assuming, of course, that she hadn’t simply lost her mind. A concussion, maybe. That was probably the most likely explanation by far.

Well. If it was real, it offered a way to escape, at least. Trying to remember her previous movements, the Dark Lord wriggled and turned in the mud until she had brought herself back to the second space she had encountered, with a low incline leading up to a twilit opening at her left. Turning carefully, she moved forward up the slanting slope, trying to ignore the dizzying flash of scenes and wreckage spinning by her sides, and after struggling a bit at the lip of the opening managed to force her way out to the surface.

A weird, whistling wind whined through her mane as she stared out in stupefaction at the devastation that greeted her. She recognized nothing; what had been a bustling, happy town had been utterly razed, cratered, torched, crushed. There was nothing that hadn’t been obliterated; far beyond the borders of the town forests had been upended or uprooted, slabs of earth rearing up out of the ground at ninety degree angles or hovering upside down in the sky, while in the distance the mountains themselves were horribly distorted, some half-melted, some broken and cratered, and others simply gone. She swerved around, trying to spot the distant Canterhorn. The distortion of space made it impossible to guess where it should be. She thought she recognized one slumped half-mountain as what had once been the Canterhorn’s base, its top sheared off and the remainder riven in half, but she couldn’t be sure.

The Moon and Sun hung close together in the sky, drifting aimless and unguided around one another, and Sassaflash remembered that both the Mule and Sweetie Belle had been on the Canterhorn. She fell forward, stumbling through tortured space. Staggering to a halt, she stared frantically around her, caught in a rising tide of panic and horror. It all felt too real to be just a hallucination. Something hot trickled down her forehead and fell to the ground, spattering wetly in the mud. She looked down. Blood.

The dam broke. Rearing up on to her hind legs, wings thrashing uselessly in the magic-less air, Sassaflash gave a desperate scream. “Mule!” She galloped forward, space whirling in a mad vortex at her flanks as she swung her head right and left, desperately searching through the maelstrom of madness for some sign of life. “Parchment! Sweetie Belle! Angel!” She stopped, spun, and galloped off in a different direction, her eyes stinging with tears and blood. It couldn’t be. They were out there, they had to be. They hadn’t—She hadn’t—

A flash of color, distinct from the chaos of rubble and mud that was all that remained of the world, spun by in her peripheral vision. Screeching to a halt, the desperate pegasus inched backwards. Something. Somepony. She had seen somepony, she knew it. She would find them, and they would explain that it was somehow all a mistake, it hadn’t really happened, it wasn’t really real…

There. She had reached the right point in space, and slowly turned, careful not to move forward or backward and twist space around her again. Not far off, standing together in silence, were two tall mares, hornless and wingless. One was a deep blue, her mane pale and hanging limp and muddy at her side, and beside her stood a taller rose-maned mare, her dirtied coat colored the palest pink. There was something oddly familiar about their graceful, slender forms, something she thought she recognized. Making sure that they were dead ahead of her, Sassaflash stepped forward.

As she drew nearer, the smaller of the two looked up, and then turned to her taller companion and, pointing in the pegasus’ direction, murmured something that Sassaflash couldn’t hear. The pale mare started, and followed her companion’s gaze, her ears laid back and an expression of sublime despair on her face. It was Princess Celestia, powerless, brought low, and the mare at her side was her sister, Princess Luna.

They made no motion towards her, allowing her to make her awkward way over to the ruined basin where they stood flanked by the wreckage of a world. Things shouldn’t have gone this way. They were supposed to contain Discord, defeat him, and drain themselves in the process. Things shouldn’t have gone this way. Stumbling up to them, the mare stammered out, “I—I don’t understand. How could this have happened?”

Luna turned her head away. Celestia gazed down at the small, bedraggled pegasus before her, drew a shuddering breath, and whispered, “I’m so sorry, my little pony. We tried. Believe me, we tried.”

“But what happened?” Her voice caught in her throat, and she repeated, “How could this have ever happened? You and Luna should have won! You should have defeated Discord!”

“We did win, little one. Discord is dead.” She raised a hoof, and gestured to the wasteland beyond. “This is victory…” Then a flicker of confusion crossed Celestia’s face. “But how do you know that name?”

“I’m a scholar. I was a scholar. It doesn’t matter.” Sassaflash shook her head. “But you defeated it before! You brought it down, you saved Equestria. You saved us.”

Luna turned. “Nay! The Elements of Harmony saved Equestria, not us—and the Elements have long since passed out of our keep. We had naught but our own dwimmercraft with which to face the Worm, after he did away with the Elements’ Bearers. Without the Elements themselves in his grasp, he did not dare to take any risks. Alas that our strength was not enough!”

“So you fought,” whispered Sassaflash. There must have been something else. Her plan couldn’t have done this. She couldn’t have done this. She was only a mortal. Mortals didn’t destroy worlds. Mortals didn’t kill Gods. They couldn’t. It wasn’t possible.

“Aye, we fought.” Luna nodded. “We tried to save you; tried to save all of you. But Discord used our compassion against us, smiting the world with mad fury in order that we might spread our strength thin. We managed to bring some out of this valley, away from the chaos—I know not how many. ‘Twas not enough.”

“Mountains walked,” murmured Celestia, staring dead-eyed across the rubble-strewn plain. “The sky burned...” And Sassaflash remembered Celestia’s oldest name, the name she had had before Luna ever came into being: The Ouranocaust, the sky-scorcher.

The Sky-Scorcher, the Worm, and the Nightmare. She had pitted them against one another. Gods had warred, at her will and at her command, and the world had perished. Her vanity and her hubris, her power and her madness, had ripped the world to pieces and destroyed everything she had ever valued or learned to value.

The Dark Lord Sassaflash had risen—and fallen.

Cold winds lashed at the broken waste, twisting in strange eddies as they wound their way through the contorted angles of space, and in the shadow of a broken fragment of mountain, lying half-sunken in the crater it had made after being hurled from one of the distant, shattered peaks, the body of a pale turquoise pegasus lay silent and still, her hooves curled tightly against her sides for warmth.

And in the Dreamlands, Sassaflash walked through the whispering grasses, her wings hanging slack at her sides. She had just been to the mules’ home, in its little glen under the shade of the spreading oak, to tell his wife that her husband was dead.

Those eyes. Sassaflash could still see Missus Mule’s eyes as the pegasus’ words sank in, haunted and hopeless. There had been no anger, no violence—Sassaflash had been half expecting the mule’s wife to try to murder her, and wasn’t entirely sure that she would have tried to fight her off—just that deep, profound misery, and a few whispered words: “Why did you kill him? What was it all for? Why did you kill my Mule?”

Grass swished along Sassaflash‘s flanks as she wandered, aimless and lost, across the rolling hills. What was it all for? She had had reasons, once, and she remembered thinking they were very good reasons, but she seemed to have forgotten what they were. Oh, she remembered some ideas: Conquering death. Overthrowing a tyrant. Bringing her mother back to life. Very grand and powerful they had sounded, right and good and worthwhile. But now...just ash. Ash, and rubble, and ruin, and nothing was left of all she had hoped for and loved.

Bringing her mother back to life. The pegasus slumped down on her haunches, staring numbly into the grass. That was what it had really been; the other goals were only excuses, lies she had told to herself to justify her actions. All of this, all this devastation, because one lost, angry, hurt foal hadn’t been able to accept that all stories had to end.

Well. She’d got what she’d wanted, hadn’t she? Celestia and Luna had fallen, and the spells they had woven to keep the gates of time shut, to bar the Hounds of Tindalos from ravaging the world, had dissolved away. She could rescue her mother now, if she wanted. It had taken the murder of ten thousand souls, but now she could go back in time and—

She could go back in time.

Sassaflash‘s heart stopped, her breath caught in her throat, the waving grass stems froze, and the wind stilled. She could go back in time. The silver key that would unlock the vaults of history was in her grasp. She could return to when this had started, to before this had started, and prevent it from ever having happened. She could save the Mule, save Sweetie Belle, save Crowded Parchment and Angel and all of Equestria from her own mad, blind selfishness. In fact, if she went far enough back, if she saved her mother as well, the chain of events that had led to this would never have even started, and…and…

The hope rising within her abruptly stalled, its growth choked off. No. Time didn’t work like that; if she went back, she would still have been acting based on what she had experienced here. That past—this present—it would all still exist, just along a different branch of reality. For a moment she considered doing it anyway, retreating to a halcyon parallel cosmos and leaving this one behind her. Time's flow would be diverted into two paths, and she would go swimming along the one in which her mother never got sick, never died, and was never half-revived. Her mother would see what her daughter had become, how her talent had blossomed far beyond even her own knowledge, and she would be so proud of her daughter, her Sassaflash, her little ghoul.

The beautiful possibility hung suspended in Sassaflash‘s mind, a glittering glimpse of the happiness she could have. She could slough this world off as a snake sheds its skin, leaving its ruin behind her. It would be so easy, so simple. For a moment Sassaflash hesitated.

But every night she would see the ruin of Equestria in her dreams, hear the misery in the mule’s wife’s voice, and feel in her soul all that she had done and all that she had destroyed. I can’t do it, she thought. Mama, I’m so sorry. I can’t save you. I thought I could, but I can’t. They need me too, Mama. I can’t leave them like this.

Sassaflash rose to her hooves and drew a deep breath, her wings folding back at her sides and her head lifting as the wild wind rushed through the grass around her and the scent of dreams hung in the air. Time and the cosmos itself stood athwart her path, but she defied them. She had spoken with ghouls and with wraiths. She had seen Cthulhu’s Eye, and lived. She had brought the dead back to life. She had broken a world. She had killed Gods. Let Yog-Sothoth behold her and tremble, for she was the Dark Lord—

No. The pegasus sighed. No, that wasn’t who and what she was at all. She was a lonely, lost, hurt pony, very much out of her depth, who had done something horrible and was going to try to make it right. Whether she succeeded or not, she would still be that pony, her soul blackened with unforgivable sins, her life a history of pain, sorrow, and selfish, pointless anger.

She was only Sassaflash. But even so, she was going to save the world from herself.

In the middle of the waste, a heavy slab of stone slowly tilted back, half-rising and half-sliding across the thick mud. A grimy claw-hoof grappled on to the edge of the slab and pushed it back, and a gaunt, half-equine and half-canine creature emerged from the darkness below. The beast heaved itself up on to the slab, squatting atop it like some hideous gargoyle, and solemnly surveyed the devastation around him. He inhaled, drawing a deep draught of stagnant, wet air through his muzzle, and gave a disgusted whuff. Bodies, buried in pits, trapped under stone, drowned in mud—more than he could ever eat before it rotted away. He hated waste.

There was a flicker in his peripheral vision, and the ghoul turned. For a moment nothing further happened, and then Sassaflash warped into view, carefully walking backwards to bring herself on a straight path to the ghoul through the contorted space of the wasteland. She turned, and stepped forward, her face haggard and her eyes burning. “I knew you’d answer my call. I knew you’d survived. You haven’t lived this long just to be killed by a mere apocalypse.”

Crowded Parchment scowled, and his rubbery ears flicked back against his hairless head. “My burrows run very deep, necromancer. What dost thou want?”

“Help. I was wrong. I was so horribly, horribly wrong. Please. I need to save them.”

“Save them?” The ghoul’s eyes widened in incredulity. “They’re dead! Thou’rt skilled in thy craft, but not all thy skill could undo this!”

“No.” Sassaflash shook her head. “You’re right, I don’t have the skill. But somepony else might. I need you to help me find my lab, Parchment. I need you to help me find Starswirl the Bearded.”

Chapter 19

With a quiet plip, nothing dropped from nowhere. It briefly flickered into existence as a droplet of water as it fell by a chunk of cracked stone that had once been part of somepony’s home, then vanished again, sliding smoothly away through a labyrinth of twisted space to some unknowable destination. Plunk. Presumably that was the sound of it landing in a puddle, or against the side of a cliff leagues away, or perhaps on the same damp surface from which it had fallen in the first place. Reality was broken, and it was hard to say for sure.

A wad of dirty thatching fell with a wet thump to a cobbled floor, letting a dusty beam of light shine out of the hole that it had filled. It illuminated a vaulted stone chamber, thrown into disarray by the recent apocalypse. Books, herbs, heavy wooden furniture, and bent, twisted implements of iron and crystal lay scattered about the room, lying in heaps atop one another or hanging like surreal chandeliers from hooks embedded in the ceiling. A great black cauldron lay overturned in one corner of the room.

The light grew brighter as another clump of thatching broke free, and an insistent scratching and whuffing became audible, coming from somewhere above. One of the stones of the ceiling grated inward, and after a few hollow thuds it fell free, bringing a rain of dirt and pebbles loose with it. Something like a pony's hoof that had cracked into a set of blunt claws grasped at the edge of the new cavity, scrabbling at the surrounding blocks of stone, and before long the hole had been widened enough for the digger, a rubbery-skinned, gaunt creature, to force his wrinkled body through and drop down to the floor of the dungeon. Looking up, he called, “The way is clear, necromancer, but—” He was interrupted by another shower of dirt, and he made an agile leap to one side as a begrimed pegasus tumbled down from overhead to land with a heavy thump on the uneven floor. Eyeing her as she lifted herself to her hooves, wincing in pain, he finished, “—’Tis quite a drop. Have a care.”

“Thank you, Parchment, for that timely warning,” growled Sassaflash. Dusting herself off with one outstretched wing, she looked around, and drew a short, hissing breath at the sight of her ruined laboratory. “What a mess. Could have been worse, though, of course…” She stood silent for a moment longer, then shook her head and stepped forward, head held low as she peered through the wreckage around her. “Here, come help me look. We need the salts, of course, but also Angel’s corpses, a knife, bitumen, as much lye as possible, chalk, plenty of water or wood…”

The ghoul and the necromancer labored in the shadows, overturning, seeking, collecting, and assembling. Before too long they had cleared a space in the center of the room and set the heavy iron cauldron there, squat and black, with the jar containing Starswirl’s salts—mercifully unbroken—beside it. Unsurprisingly, the shattering of space had likewise shattered all the plumbing lines, so water was not to be found, but there was plentiful wood in the form of the cracked and broken furniture littering the chamber. After mixing together two powders, one reddish and the other black, and pouring them both into the bottom of the cauldron, Sassaflash directed Crowded Parchment to fill it with kindling while she scribed a series of twisting sigils and interconnected circles on the stone slabs surrounding it. At times she hesitated, going back to erase some of her work or replace one glyph with another, similar one, and at one point she halted for nearly ten minutes to rummage through the books scattered through the laboratory, searching for some formula that, to judge from her muttered snorts of irritation, she was unable to find. The ghoul finished his labors first, and sat back on his haunches in a corner of the room, watching her with dark, glittering eyes. At length, seeing her continued struggles, he asked, “Thou’rt not forgetful of the Aklo? I can aid thee in it, if need be, though I wot not how thy memory could fail thee so soon.”

The Dark Lord gave a short, humorless laugh and, talking around the bit of chalk held in her mouth, muttered, “Forgetful? Ya wgah’n shakloggog! No, it is the petty logistics, not the ability itself, that is the sticking point. To revive the dead I need water—but there is no water, or not enough to fill a cauldron. Thus this rigmarole. But I think…” She raised her head, eyeing the symbols on the floor, and then gave a short, worried whuff. Spitting the chalk out of her mouth, she said, “I have not attempted something quite like this before, and would not now, except—well. I can hardly make things worse. I would stand back, if I were you.” She stepped forward, muttering a few quick invocations of protection, and raising a hoof above the cauldron intoned, “’Bthnk sgn’wahl, ch’orr’eah ftaghunglui. Throd ehyehai uaaah!” A brief pause, and then, averting her face and cringing in anticipation, she said, “Fm’latgh.”

A burst of flame shot forth, sliding across the broken wood like oil over water. A thin veneer of sickly, blue-green fire clung to the surface of the wooden fragments for several moments before slowly fading away—but as it did so, the wood itself began to glisten wetly, little bubbles of gas hissing and sputtering as water dripped from its surface. Sassaflash‘s shoulders lost their tension, and she allowed her wings to settle back against her sides. Turning to Crowded Parchment, she said, “Add small but equal proportions of these two powders if you feel excess heat coming from the wood, but do not touch anything in that cauldron. If you do come in contact with anything within, let me know immediately; otherwise, you will probably die horribly. And possibly explode. I haven’t actually done the math.” She paused to gather her thoughts and then made a careful sidestep, disappearing smoothly from the perturbed ghoul’s view as she slipped away through one of the cracks running through space.

Gradually, spell by spell and ingredient by ingredient, the elements of Starswirl’s resurrection came together. Sassaflash spoke little, going about her task in a grim, strained silence very different from her normal melodramatic self-assuredness. When the flameless fire in the cauldron had died down and she was satisfied that all the wood had been consumed, she instructed Crowded Parchment to stir in several dozen pounds of lye while she rolled a thick oaken barrel, nearly as tall as she was, over to his side. She levered the top off, and the ghoul, leaning over to look within, exclaimed, “So that is why I could not scent them.”

The mare nodded as she hoisted a heavy slug of wax with a suspiciously groundhog-like shape out of the barrel and dropped it into the nearby vat. “Yes. Boiled, then sealed in wax to preserve them from putrescence—and from snacking ghouls. I know your proclivities. Here, help me with this fox.”

When the last of the bodies had been loaded into the cauldron, the ghoul kindled a fire beneath it while Sassaflash busied herself about the small urn containing Starswirl’s salts, a kerchief tied around her nose in an attempt to block the acrid stench of the slowly disintegrating corpses nearby. Crowded Parchment, she noticed, seemed completely unaffected; in fact, every so often when he thought she wasn’t looking, he would lean over the bubbling, greenish-black stew and inhale deeply, apparently savoring the aroma. Sassaflash rolled her eyes. “Are there any bodies left in the barrel, Parchment?”

The ghoul paused, confused. “Aye.”

“Then take a break and have something to eat. You’ve been working hard.”

Crowded Parchment raised an eyebrow, but to Sassaflash‘s relief made no comments about unexpected thoughtfulness or consideration, and after groping with his long foreclaws around the bottom of the barrel managed to retrieve what might in happier days have been a duck. While he cracked it out of its wax shell, the pegasus returned to her own task. Pouring a small quantity of water into Starswirl’s urn, she set it above a spirit lamp and heated it to a boil, stirring it the while to dissolve the salts within. Then, bringing forth a small lump of bitumen, she held it above the urn on an upturned hoof while muttering a short incantation of harsh, stinging words in Aklo. After waiting a moment, as if to be sure that the spell had taken, she turned her hoof and allowed the bitumen to fall into the boiling water, where it immediately began to melt away, disappearing in cloudy black eddies into the water around it. Sassaflash nodded. “Acceptable. Parchment, would you bring that knife here? You’ll have to do the cutting, I’m afraid; I can’t pronounce the words while holding it in my mouth.”

The ghoul laid his half-gnawed duck aside, and loped over to the pegasus’ side. “Aye. What dost thou need cut?”

“My foreleg, of course. At the fetlock. Try to avoid the tendons, I don’t want to be lamed. I just need a little fresh blood.” A pause, and then, seeing his hesitation, “What? Surely you aren’t squeamish?”

“Nay, nay. Only I am ill used to cutting living flesh. A carcass, yes, but a warm, living thing, moving and breathing, with blood flowing through it…” The ghoul shivered in revulsion. Sassaflash rolled her eyes.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. I’m not asking you to saw a leg off; it just needs to be a little cut. Kindly do not dither.” Raising her hoof above the boiling water, she repeated her earlier incantation, changing a few words and adding a few new ones. When she had finished, she turned to her assistant and said, “Now.”

Not without some reluctance, Crowded Parchment raised the knife and nicked Sassaflash‘s outstretched foreleg, letting a few red droplets fall with a hissing splash into the urn. Withdrawing her hoof, the pegasus nodded thanks and trotted over to the bubbling cauldron to inspect its contents. As she had hoped, the lye had already completed its work, helped along by the lingering remnants of the spell that she had cast to disintegrate the wood, and the cauldron was filled with a glutinous soup, greenish-brown and smelling strongly of ammonia. The necromancer nodded. “All is in readiness, then. Parchment, I ought to warn you that this particular resurrection may be unusually dangerous; Starswirl the Bearded was an immensely powerful mage, and not overly fond of necromancers. I will be reviving him without bindings as a sign of good will—and because I highly doubt that anything I could cast on him would be sufficient to hold him. As such, you may wish to...Parchment?” She turned. The ghoul was conspicuous by his absence, and a newly-dug hole yawned at the far end of the room. Trotting over, she could hear the fading sound of claws scraping on clay as Crowded Parchment put as much space as possible between himself and the impending resurrection.

Well. No need to worry about him, then. Drawing a deep breath, Sassaflash gingerly lifted the mage’s urn from above the spirit lamp, and carried it over to the cauldron. She paused before it, and then, her voice ringing hollow in the vaulted dark of the chamber, she poured the contents of the urn into the cauldron while intoning:

Y'ai 'ng'ngah

Yog-Sothoth

H'ee-l’geb

F'ai throdog

Uaaah!

The last droplet of water struck the roiling surface. For a moment nothing happened, and Sassaflash was terribly afraid that the entire resurrection had failed. Then, like a pool of chilled water freezing into ice, the bubbling liquid stilled. Sassaflash‘s eyes widened, and she reared up and around, darting away from the vat even as the brew within began to mold itself into a form, a shape, a body…

She made it nearly halfway across the room before the cauldron exploded. At the same instant, a choking wave of force swept through the air, flinging her helplessly up against the opposite wall and pinning her there like a butterfly to a board, every muscle in her body slack and helpless. A shadow rose up amidst the swirling fumes billowing from the shattered cauldron, gaunt and long-limbed, and as the clouds of steam fell away Sassaflash beheld a tall gray pony, white-maned and white-bearded, with eyes yellow as amber and a long, trailing tail. He had no horn.

The stallion paused a moment, looking around to take stock of his surroundings, and then turned his gaze on Sassaflash. His ears flattened against his head, and his eyes narrowed as he said, “Erravisti.” He raised a hoof, stepped forward—and then froze in shock as the shattered world around him warped and twisted. After a moment’s hesitation he took a tentative step forward, back, then rotated experimentally to the left and right before glaring up at the pinned necromancer overhead. “Quid fecisti!?”

Fm’latgh ehyehai, uaaah, thought Sassaflash, and the spells binding her in place and silencing her momentarily weakened. “Please! I need to save them! I need your help to—” A quick gesture and a muttered phrase from Starswirl, and her tongue went numb again—but the anger on the mage’s face was fading away now, replaced by confusion. In halting accents, he said, “‘You need to save them?’ What trickery is this, necromancer? Do you think to fool me?” After a moment’s further thought, he raised a hoof and uttered a quick, growling phrase in Aklo, and Sassaflash felt life return to her limbs and the numbness drain away from her mouth and tongue, though she remained pinned to the wall. The mage stepped carefully forward, eyes focused on her as he tried to ignore the kaleidoscopic eddy of worlds rushing by his peripheral vision. “Speak!”

“Please,” repeated Sassaflash, “Everypony’s dead. I killed them. I can’t let this be the way the world is, and you’re the only pony I know of with the power to undo what I’ve done. They didn’t deserve to die.”

“Few do,” observed Starswirl, coldly. “Yet I am no necromancer, to rouse the dead from their slumber, nor have I the time to erase every tragedy from the annals of history. If you’ve killed your few friends, or more likely, your family—I’ve rarely known a necromancer to have friends—that is your crime and your punishment. Live with it. It was your family, I suppose?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No.” Sassaflash shook her head. “It was almost everypony within—” She made a quick mental calculation, based on the disfigured and missing mountains she had seen on the horizon. “—a radius of approximately thirty leagues. At the very least.”

Starswirl, who had been experimentally moving his hoof back and forward in front of his face in an effort to pin down exactly what had happened to the space around him, made a sort of surprised choking sound and stared up at the necromancer. “What? What year is this?”

“I don’t know what it would be in your reckoning; Unicornia fell a long, long time ago.”

“Immaterial,” said Starswirl, stamping his hoof on the floor, and for a moment Sassaflash had the strangest impression that she was looking at her own reflection. She recognized that impatient irritation with the slowness of others, though she had never had it directed at herself. “Just tell me the date as you know it.”

“Well...1002. That is, a thousand and two years after—”

“—After Princess Luna was banished to the moon, yes,” finished Starswirl. “Oh yes, I know about that. How do you think I know your tongue? I’ve visited many times, and lived the history of Equestria—and written it, too, under different aliases.” He paused. “Which is why this particular deception, necromancer, was doomed before it began. I know the history of this era, and I know that this year suffered no such catastrophe.”

Sassaflash gave a hopeless shrug of her shoulders. “Just look for yourself. The hole in the ceiling there is the way out.”

After glaring at her for a moment longer with a look of deep suspicion, Starswirl muttered a few words under his breath and made a brief gesture with his hoof, and then promptly disappeared from view. Sassaflash thought she might have glimpsed a hint of a blur striking up through the air, but she couldn’t have sworn to it. For perhaps a minute she hung there in silence, still pinned to the wall by the ancient mage’s spell, and then with a crack of displaced air Starswirl rematerialized, his composure gone and his eyes wide. He seemed to be having some difficulty getting air into his lungs. The mage stared wildly up at the necromancer, at a loss for words, and she raised an eyebrow. “You see?”

Starswirl swallowed once or twice. “What did you do? I couldn’t have done this! Nopony could do this! What are you?”

“Magister, with all due respect, don’t be a fool. I didn’t do that myself; I had to release the demon Discord, and in its battle with the royal sisters, it—”

“No. Stop.” Starswirl held up a hoof. “You don’t understand. This never happened. I have been back and forward through ten thousand years of history, and I know every catastrophe and every triumph of Equestria, all locked within the pattern of time. And this—this apocalypse is not part of that pattern. Discord was freed in 1002, yes, but he was quickly contained by the bearers of the Elements of Harmony, with no loss of life. You have not just broken a world, necromancer, you’ve somehow broken time.” He sank back on his haunches, a look of shocked bafflement on his wrinkled face. “And you did so without drawing the Hounds of Tindalos down on your head, as well. I cannot fathom it. Yhoundeh’s pack cannot be drawn off from their quarry; any divergence of the river of time, and they descend to tear apart whatever was responsible. They cannot be waylaid. They cannot be distracted. They cannot be stopped. The only way to evade them when traveling through time is to maintain stable time loops—but this you manifestly have not done.” Looking back up at Sassaflash, he repeated, “What did you do?”

“I don’t know!” Her hopes of a masterful Starswirl ready to take control and mend what had been broken were rapidly crumbling around her. That left time travel as the only option, then—not that there was any way it could help, but what else could she do? “I mean, I did kill Tsathoggua before bringing about Discord’s death, but that shouldn’t have done anything like this.” A pause. “Should it?”

“How should I know?” The old pony gave an exasperated whinny. “I’ve never met anypony who has committed serial deicide before! Did you say you killed Tsathoggua?” He paused, massaging his greying forehead. At length, he looked up and asked, “What did you say your name was again?”

“Sassaflash.“

“Never heard of you,” muttered Starswirl. “I wonder why.” He bent his head in thought.

The silence which followed lasted some time. At length the pinned necromancer said, with some hesitation, “I wasn’t expecting you to be an Earth pony. You are Starswirl the Bearded, correct?”

A disgruntled snort. “Of course I’m Starswirl. I imagine I am commonly depicted with a horn, yes? That was a prosthetic; the Unicornians among whom I lived had little respect for the hornless. And why should I not be an Earth pony? You are a pegasus.”

The only good mages are unicorns, but the only great mages are Earth ponies and pegasi, she thought. “Ah. Could you perhaps let me down now?”

“Absolutely not. Be grateful I’m allowing you to speak at all.”

Well, it had been worth a try. Sassaflash resigned herself to waiting in silence for the mage to speak—which, after a period of time that was much too long for the necromancer’s liking, he eventually did. With a sighing whuff, the old stallion shook his head and said, “I still do not understand what exactly happened—what you did. Tell me everything, and perhaps I shall find some way to undo this. I doubt it, though."

So she did. Starswirl proved to be a good listener, sitting in gruff silence as she related her plans, her adventures, and her mistakes. He interrupted her only once, when she was reluctantly explaining her motivations, asking “And how, necromancer, did you expect to save your mother without calling down the Hounds of Tindalos when you split the timeline by interfering with what has been?”

“I don’t know. My plan was to cross that bridge when I came to it; I had already done so much that evading the Hounds seemed like a simple task. I’ve even done it before; when I was a filly I sent a stone back in time as an experiment, and when I brought it back to the present they followed. I wasn’t able to see much of what happened; I just remember an incredible, pressing pain, and a cracking sound. Maybe a hint of blue light, before I lost consciousness. When I came to, there were jagged cracks in the floorboards—not along the grain of the wood, but at random angles—and the stone itself had been reduced to a few sharp-edged fragments of rock. They’d left me alive, though. They hadn’t realized, I suppose, that I had been responsible for the sending, and only attacked what had been directly responsible for disturbing the flow of time. I thought I might be able to take advantage of that to distract them in some way, although I haven’t yet been able to think how.”

“Nor will you. The Hounds are not to be trifled with; it’s a miracle, indeed, that you’ve already survived one encounter with them—and incomprehensible that they haven’t pursued you now, given that you’ve somehow split history itself in half. I’d say you were lying to me about what happened, were it not for the evidence of the apocalypse above us.” He frowned. “Proceed with your tale.”

The rest of the story took little time to tell. When Sassaflash had finished, she concluded, her voice low, “And now nothing’s left.” Her ears limp, she raised her head and pleaded, “Can’t you do something? Can’t you save them from me?”

Starswirl fixed her with a keen glance. “Is that what you hoped for? Summon the great mage Starswirl the Bearded so that he might recite some arcane incantation and undo the damage it took you years of planning and effort to achieve? I am a wizard, not a God—and even were I a God, it might avail nought. By your own account, you’ve already slain two of them.” He shook his head. “No, I’ve neither heard, read, nor experienced anything that leads me to believe that erasing an entire timeline is possible. I see no way of undoing the destruction you have wrought on Equestria.”

The pegasus’ wings hung slack in her bonds. She had hoped, she had dared to hope, that Starswirl might have been able to do something—that he would know some secret, or wield some forgotten magic, that would undo all she had done.

But he didn’t. He didn’t, and the burden of Equestria’s fate rested firmly on her own shoulders. She would have to bear that burden as best she could, and find a solution herself. Looking up at the mage, she said, “Then I’m on my own.”

“Did I say that?” With a wave of his hoof, Starswirl dispelled the bindings holding Sassaflash in place, lowering her to the flagstones of the floor. “I am a methodical thinker, Sassaflash, who must put one hoof in front of the other. But from what you have told me, I very much suspect that you are not. The sheer ambition of your original plan is such as I have never encountered before. You contemplated acts and deeds that I would have dismissed out of hoof as being impossible. It may well be that you possess the bold madness needed to wake Equestria from the nightmare that has consumed it.” He gave her a keen glance. “What do you need in order to do so?”

Sassaflash blinked in surprise. “What do I—are you offering to help me? Half a minute ago you had me pinned to a wall!”

“For good reason, I think! You are a necromancer, you are a Dark Lord, and you frighten me, Sassaflash! Do you imagine that strength in magic is to be found in lore and formulae? No! It is a way of thinking, an algorithm by which one encounters and manipulates the cosmos. Your destruction of Tsathoggua and Discord used no magic that I was not familiar with—and yet I could never have accomplished what you did, because I could not have imagined accomplishing it. You could. You will. I must aid you as I can, for that is all I can do.”

He drew a deep breath, and then, speaking with some distaste, he continued, “I cannot and must not limit you, much as it pains me to say it. What, then, would you have me do? What impossibility will you face?”

She thought, and at length, she spoke. “Take me back in time.”

The archmage bowed his hoary head. “So be it.”

Author's Note

Aauuauugh. Well, as it turned out, there were some elements of this chapter that I really needed—I won't say what exactly they were, for fear of spoilers—so up it goes again, modified a bit to hopefully be a bit better, or at least suit my sensibilities better, which is not, of course, necessarily the same thing.

Chapter 20

Beneath one of Ponyville’s houses, buried among the cold stones and burrowing creatures of the earth, the Dark Lord Sassaflash lay on her pallet, drifting in fitful slumber. She had fallen asleep at last only two hours ago, and she would remain asleep until noon, wracked by half-formed, anxious dreams that never quite took full form, drifting in shattered, disjointed fragments through her wearied mind. But despite the disquiet of her rest, she was asleep, and for all she knew the apocalypse she had so carefully prepared might have already struck. She would never have known one way or another.

So it was that when, with infinite care, an exact duplicate of the Dark Lord crept up the stairs from the house’s dungeon laboratory, slimy and decked with squirrel entrails and errant pieces of badger, her original was none the wiser. Seeing that Sassaflash was asleep, her doppelgänger’s tensed wings relaxed slightly, and in silence she made her way across the room to the spiral staircase winding up to the first story of the house, climbing with careful, precise hoofsteps on the stairsteps she knew didn’t creak.

Within the angled depths of time, lean hunters stirred, scenting eddies in the currents of causality. One misstep, and Sassaflash‘s worldline would be cloven in half, slashing a rift down through time for them to pour through, hungry and implacable. One misstep. One flicker of an eyelid by her original. Any divergence from what had been—what must be—and she would be theirs.

Sassaflash made no misstep. Emerging into her crowded warren of books, she slunk over to the front door, eased the bolts open, and slipped outside. After sliding the door shut behind her and magically re-locking it from the outside, she hurried off, mist trailing off her wingtips and swirling in her wake as she darted down side streets and back alleys.

A quarter of an hour later, she emerged from the shadow of a bale of thatching by the Ponyville train station, where the Friendship Express sat quietly in all its pastel, heart-bedecked glory. Accompanied by a contingent of buzzing flies she had picked up along the way, she slunk across to the unoccupied platform and, after making certain that the ticket seller had not yet arrived in his booth, scanned the list of departure times posted by the booth’s tidy glass window. A short nod. Satisfied that she knew when and where to be when the time came, she vanished into the mists once more.

The Sun eased skyward, and the murmur of the waking town rose with it, a gentle hum of chatter and hoofbeats, the sound of wagon wheels and the chirping of birds. The shifting rhythm of village life asserted itself, wrapping all in a warm and familiar harmony…

...Until, that is, a dark-eyed old mule hobbled out of the Ponyville general hospital, his long ears swiveled back and his face hard and determined. His right front leg was held in a sling, and the wheelcart strapped to his chest creaked as he made his uneven, wobbling way forward, the irregular beat of his hooves a jarring note of dissonance in the music of the marketplace. There was an odd familiarity to the scene for him, a note of things remembered. He had walked this road before, seen these crowds, and listened with mild amusement to them as they went about their business. But of course he had; he must have walked this way a hundred times. Why should there be such a poignant touch to it, then? Why such a sense of occasion?

Then he remembered. On a morning much like this, some months before, he had walked this path en route to his first meeting with the mare who called herself the Dark Lord Sassaflash. She had been self-important, abrupt, strange—almost funny in her hauteur. He remembered thinking that he might as well go along with her on her mysterious quest. He didn’t see how it could do any harm. How she could do any harm.

“I was a durned fool,” muttered the Mule, quickening his pace. He should never have trusted her; he should have known right from the first, when she had refused something as simple as spitting on her hoof to seal their agreement. So what if it made her uncomfortable; that was the entire point! If she wasn’t willing to make little sacrifices, how could he have trusted her with bigger promises? He should have seen how deeply her pain and anger had sunk into her soul, and that nothing he could do would be enough to rid her of it. All he could do now was to try to undo what he had, in part, caused, before it was too late and everything fell into ruin. He turned from the main street on to the side road that led to the train station, wobbling urgently along on his wheelcart. If only he wasn’t too late.

“Mr. Mule!”

The Mule’s skin flashed cold. Without looking back at the mare who had called him, he drew a shaky breath and continued on his way.

“Mr. Mule, wait! Please! I was wrong!”

He could hear the sound of cantering hooves behind him as Sassaflash drew nearer. Glancing over his shoulder, he growled, “Leave me be, Miss Sassaflash. You just leave me be. I ain’t a-going to let you stop me.”

“I’m not trying to stop you!” She drew up several paces behind him, breathing heavily and trotting along without trying to bring herself alongside her erstwhile minion. She was soaked through, her mane dripping wet and her muddy tail trailing through the dirt behind her, and she smelled of frogs and mud. “But it won’t help; you won’t arrive in time to stop Sweetie Belle. It’s fixed in time; Tsathoggua must die, and Discord must be freed.” She hesitated. “Or worse still, you might get there in time. You don’t understand. Something horrible will happen if the timeline is changed.”

His eyes narrowing, the Mule said, “Maybe that’s so, and maybe it ain’t. I can’t trust you after last night, Miss Sassaflash, and that’s a fact. I got to try no matter what you says.”

“But the Hounds—”

“I said leave me be!” Snarling out the last word, he bucked his hind legs at the pegasus, narrowly missing her and striking nothing but empty air. Even as his hooves flew back he twisted awkwardly forward and slammed into the ground with a cry of pain, flopping over sideways with the wheels of his cart spinning uselessly in the air. Sassaflash hurried forward, concern in her eyes, but the Mule raised a hoof and waved her away, growling, “You stay clear. I can get up on my own.” He half-raised himself up, then lost his traction and slumped down to the paving stones again.

Reluctantly sitting back on her haunches and shivering slightly from the chill water soaking her coat and feathers, Sassaflash said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mule—more than you can know. I’m not the Sassaflash you spoke with last night.”

“You expect me to believe that you done turned over a new leaf in just one night?”

She raised her right foreleg and nervously rubbed at her left. “Two, actually.”

“‘S only been one night,” muttered the Mule, levering himself up on uncertain hooves.

Shaking her head and scattering droplets of river water around her, Sassaflash responded, “Not for me, it hasn’t. I mean it literally when I say I’m not the Sassaflash you spoke with; she’s still back in my—her—home. Tomorrow she’ll wake up to a destroyed world.”

“Then who is you supposed to be? And anyhow, ain’t that what you wanted? A destroyed world?

“No! I never wanted—you don’t understand. You can’t understand, not without having seen what will have happened…” She swallowed. “I'm the pony who will wake up tomorrow to find that all she ever cared for is gone. I’m a time-traveling Sassaflash from a future where everypony is dead. You were dead. I can’t bear for that to have been real. Celestia and Luna drained themselves in their battle with Discord, and without their wards in place I was able to travel back in time to this morning. I have to stop it all from having happened—and somehow I have to do it without actually changing anything, because if I alter anything that I remember, I’ll split the timeline in half, and then I’ll never be able to undo it. It will always exist. You will always have died.” She paused and, as an afterthought, added, "Also, if I split the timeline the Hounds of Tindalos will kill me, but that's a side issue."

The Mule, who had at last succeeded in getting himself upright, said, “And you expect me to believe all o’ that?”

“You must! I was wrong, I know, but I promise I've changed!”

“Ain’t that nice. But I don’t reckon,” said the Mule, turning, “that I can trust your promises, Miss Sassaflash.” He began to wobble off in the direction of the train station, trying to move evenly, trying not to show how much their conversation had upset him. Why couldn’t she have just let well enough alone? Why couldn’t she—

Ptew.

The Mule stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. The Dark Lord Sassaflash had raised her left forehoof to her mouth. Her gaze lifted, meeting the Mule’s eyes. Turning her hoof, she held it out, and the Mule could see a glistening wetness where she had spat on it. Her face pale, the pegasus repeated in a low, quavering voice, “I promise, Mr. Mule.”

At first the Mule made no motion. Then, with slow, awkward steps, he made his way back to where the mare stood, her hoof outstretched. He looked down at her hoof, then raised his head, his wrinkled, homely face reflected in her umber eyes. At last he raised his good forehoof to his mouth and spat on it as well. Turning it outward, he brought it together with Sassaflash‘s hoof with a hard smack. He drew a deep breath, and said with slow solemnity, “I’m a-going to hold you to that promise, Miss Sassaflash.”

She nodded, meeting his gaze. “I would expect no less. Now, we need—our first order of business—we need—” She drew a ragged breath, stared at her friend for a heartbeat, and then to their mutual astonishment flung herself forward and clung to him in a tight hug, nearly throwing him off balance again as she cried “Oh, you’re alive! You’re really alive! I’d killed everypony, I’d murdered you all, I thought I’d never—I thought—I thought—Oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought. You’re alive.” She clenched her eyes shut, her head pressed against his neck and one foreleg wrapped around his shoulders.

The Mule stumbled, taken aback. After regaining both his balance and his composure, he managed to raise his good hoof and return the hug, saying, “It’s okay, Miss Sassaflash. I ain’t dead no more. Or I ain’t dead yet. One o’ the two. It’s okay.” A pause. “Miss Sassaflash?”

She made a noise like a pony breathing through a wet dishrag, sniffled once or twice, and said, “Y-yes?”

“Why is you sopping wet?

“Oh. Yes.” She seemed to realize what she was doing, and drew back. “My apologies, Mr. Mule. That was extremely undignified. I don’t—I’m sorry. It will not be repeated.”

“It don’t signify,” said the Mule. “But you ain’t tole me why you’s wet. You look like somepony done dunked you in the river.”

“Right.” Sassaflash sniffled one last time, and replied, “That would be because somepony did dunk me in the river. Specifically, me. I needed to wash off the squirrel viscera.”

The Mule tilted his head, ears flopping over to one side. The word was an unfamiliar one to him. “The what now?”

“I beg your pardon. I needed to wash off the squirrel guts.”

“The what now!?”

“Mr. Mule, I fail to see how I can further simplify—”

“No, no.” The old creature shook his head. “Why was you covered in squirrel guts in the first place?”

“Oh.” The necromancer gestured to her forehead. “Only my mind was sent back in time, rather than my whole body. Much less difficult to arrange. But naturally when I arrived here I needed a new body, so my reconstitution occurred within a jar of corpses I keep in my basement—don’t look at me that way, they all died of natural causes. My rabbit associate, Angel, collects them for me. Apparently dead animals upset a pony of whom he’s fond—and, well, there were some raw materials left over. Internal organs, skin, bones, that sort of thing.” Sassaflash paused. “But this is a distraction. Time is of the essence. We must…” She raised her forehoof, held it poised in midair for a moment, and then let it slide back down again. With a rueful sigh, she admitted, “I have not the faintest clue what we must do. We are faced with a paradox, Mr. Mule. We must change the future without changing anything in the present, lest we split the timeline.”

The Mule considered this, his brow furrowed in thought. At length he looked up and asked, “We can’t change nothing?”

“Well, technically, we must avoid changing anything that I originally observed. But as I observed both Discord’s release and the destruction of Equestria…” She gave a hopeless shrug.

Tilting a puzzled head, the Mule inquired, “You saw Discord get free? I thought you said it was already free now, and you was still sleeping back home?”

“Yes, that is correct. I did not—will not—directly observe its unbinding; some hours from now, though, I will perform a simple test which will tell me that Tsathoggua has indeed been destroyed.”

“Oh.” The Mule turned, looking north towards distant Hippoborea. “I don’t reckon they’s any chance you done made a mistake?”

Sassaflash shook her head. “Hardly. I said simple, not unreliable. The test was quite sensitive, granted, but we have no grounds to hope that there was any unusual interference tainting the results, unless—” She paused, struck by a sudden thought, and turned to look at the Mule. “Unless…”

The Mule’s eyes widened, and he finished, “...Unless we was to do something. Right?”

“Precisely, Mr. Mule! The test could be corrupted, misleading me—my past self—into believing that Discord had been released when that was not actually the case. That does not, of course, address the minor detail that I directly observed the end of the world, but perhaps it buys us time. We might yet be able to make it to Canterlot and preempt Sweetie Belle.” She hesitated. “Unless, of course, Discord has already been released.” Twisting her head around, she bit into the primaries on her right wing, and yanked hard, wrenching loose a mouthful of feathers. With a wave of her other wing, she lofted four long, turquoise plumes into the air, folding and kneading the air to guide them down on to her upraised hoof. Sitting back on her haunches, she clamped her other hoof on top of them, holding them in place by the quills with their plumes sticking out in the four cardinal directions, and whispered, “Ehye.”

She raised her hoof. The feathers, rather than fluttering free, remained in place, balanced lightly on the edge of her hoof as though glued in place by the tips of their quills. The Dark Lord glanced up at the Sun to get her bearings, and rotated her hoof so that the feathers were aligned with the compass points. Then, motioning the Mule to silence with her free hoof, she waited.

For a few moments nothing happened, the feathers remaining poised at the edge of her hoof. Then the southern quill tipped up and slid to the ground, followed quickly by the eastern and northern quill. The western quill, however, remained in place. Sassaflash gritted her teeth. “Fhtagn.”

“That weren’t supposed to happen?” inquired the Mule.

With a frown, the pegasus responded, “I had hoped it wouldn’t. It was a test of unreality; a magical compass, so to speak.” She gestured to the northern feather, lying in the dust. “The spell holding that in place was weak, and in the absence of a magical field it decayed quickly, letting the feather fall. If Tsathoggua were still alive, the flux of unreality from Voormithadreth should have been more than enough to keep it from falling, as was the case for the western feather—held in place, before you ask, by the unreality pouring from R’lyeh. Cthulhu’s lair,” she added. “It is a statistical test, though, so perhaps we were just unlucky this time. A few more trials, perhaps…”

Further attempts, though, brought nothing but a repeat of the first experiment’s results, and after the fifth try the Mule laid a gentle hoof on Sassaflash‘s shoulder, and said, “I don’t reckon Tsathoggy’s still there, Miss Sassaflash.”

The Dark Lord scowled, and ground the fallen feathers under her hoof. “No, blast it. I had hoped—but no.” In a grim, hollow voice said, “Discord is loose, and the end of the world is nigh.”

In the solemn pause that followed this dire declaration, a few birds twittered nearby, chipper and happy, and a cool breeze swept its sprightly way past them, ruffling the Mule’s mane and tail and carrying with it the cheerful sounds of the marketplace. A white, tufted cloud drifted clear of the Sun, and the nearby thatched roofs glowed a goldenrod yellow in the light. The Mule scuffed his forehoof against the cobbles. “It don’t feel like things is fixing to fall apart.”

“No, it doesn’t, at that,” admitted Sassaflash. “Discord remembers its first defeat, and will not risk showing itself until it is certain that Celestia and Luna are powerless to imprison it once again.” She looked down at the feathers lying crumpled against the paving stones, dirty and twisted where she had crushed them. Somewhat absently, she stepped on one of them once more, grinding it beneath her hoof. “Which gives us one day.” Shredded barbs twined and ripped against the rough stones. “One day to fix things.” She stepped back, gazing at the sad remnants of what had once been a feather, and then looked up at her companion. “Tell me, Mr. Mule, how would you fix this quill of mine? Or rather, how would you make it so that I had never broken it in the first place?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “You couldn’t. Nopony could, no matter what powers they could bring to bear, for they would not be trying to mend it if it had never been broken. Therefore, our task is not to undo what will be—because that guarantees that what will be has been. We must take a different road…”

“That’s as may be, Miss Sassaflash,” said the Mule, “but we can’t let Discord wreck Equestria, neither.”

“Indeed not! You are quite right, Mr. Mule. Thwarting a God may be easier than rewriting reality, but that is no reason to neglect the problem.” She rose to her hooves. “Come, Mr. Mule. I think best when walking, and in any case I would prefer not to remain in the environs of Ponyville, lest my original spot me and split the worldlines. Are you well enough to be able to manage a gentle stroll? Yes? Excellent.” So saying, the pegasus turned and trotted off down the lane, the Mule limping close behind.

Sassaflash, the Mule found, made for a very strange companion—stranger than usual, at least—when she was trying to brainstorm. After having given a brief description of what had happened to her in the future, she withdrew into herself, muttering under her breath, with her wings shifting back and forth across her back as though pulled by invisible puppet strings. Every so often she would pause, retrace her steps, and then walk along the same path she had just trod, carefully stepping in her own hoofprints. Once or twice she blundered into him in her abstraction, and after a muttered “My apologies,” she cycled around in a circle once or twice before returning to her previous course.

About half an hour’s worth of this brought them under the spreading boughs of Whitetail wood, the trees’ leaves still gleaming a deep burnished green and as yet untouched by autumn’s colors. Up until this point the Mule had maintained a steady silence so as not to disrupt the necromancer’s train of thought. Surely, though, he thought, she should have at least the glimmerings of a plan by now. After a hesitant clearing of his throat that completely failed to catch Sassaflash‘s attention, he asked, “You done thunk o’ anything yet?”

The pegasus looked up. “What?”

“I asked if you done thunk o’ anything.”

“Ah. No, I have not.” Her lips curled up in an irritated snarl. “Nor will I, I imagine. Starswirl was right; I’m not a methodical thinker. My schemes come to me in flashes of brilliant insight, blast it, not tedious meditation. I just need the right spark, and it will all come blazing forth, perfect and whole—but I don’t know how to find that spark!”

The Mule nodded, and ducked as he passed under a low-hanging branch from one of the trees bordering the trail. “Well, maybe I can help. What was you a-thinking on?”

“Discord. Deicide. Traps, dark magic, forbidden rites, ancient lore—but none of it helps! None of it is enough! The only thing that occurs to me is a recycled scheme I came up with on the night of the Summer Sun Celebration, when Nightmare Moon returned. It would have taken a solid week, and might not have worked even then, but it was better than nothing. Fortunately those six ponies with the Elements of Harmony took care of things before I needed to put it into effect, because it would have gotten very, very cold before I was finished.” She scowled. “But that doesn’t help us at all, because we don’t have a week. We have one day, and perhaps one night. No more. If we only had more resources, more allies! I just don’t see how I can bring down Discord all by myself!”

“What if you did the same thing you done to Tsathoggy? Sucked its magic clean away?”

Sassaflash shook her head. “Not an option, unfortunately. Tsathoggua’s power didn’t just disappear; not only was it deposited within Discord, but a significant portion was also shunted into the swamp surrounding the Canterhorn. That area will clear itself of the excess magic in time, of course, but for now it’s saturated with unreality, and is no more effective a magical drain than any other place would be. There are no other places like it that I know of.” She scrambled over a tree trunk that had fallen across the path, slipping on the slick moss growing on its bark, and held out a hoof to help the Mule over.

Taking her hoof, the Mule clambered after her, clumsily maneuvering his wheelcart over to the other side. For some moments they continued on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. At length the Mule spoke up once more. “You said you didn’t reckon you could beat Discord all by your lonesome. Do you have to, though? I mean, the Princesses is still out there, and so is them ponies who used the Elements of Harmony agin’ Princess Luna when she went all crazy with the evil.” Sassaflash gave a contemptuous sniff at the mention of the Bearers, but said nothing. The Mule, wisely electing to let this pass without comment, continued, “Supposing we just weakened Discord a mite? Took it down a notch, sort o’ like. Then the Princesses could take care o’ the rest, withouten smashing Equestria up.” He paused. “Miss Sassaflash?“

The Dark Lord had come to a dead standstill on the trail, staring ahead with vacant eyes at a vista only she could see. A muscle in her face twitched, and her mouth slowly drifted wide in an expression that looked very like awe. At last she inhaled deeply, and looked at the Mule. “I said I needed a spark, just now. I rather suspect you have just provided it. You’re absolutely right; we must unbalance Discord, just as we unbalanced Tsathoggua, and thus allow Celestia and Luna—Oh, very well, or your Element Bearers, if you insist on giving them credit—to precipitate it into the pit.”

“But—” began the Mule, but the Dark Lord’s eyes flashed, and with a triumphant grin she interrupted, “But we have no way of draining its magic, yes? Inconsequential! Smashing a window is not the only way to break into a house; one may also trick the householder into inviting you in. This we will do with Discord. It hides because it fears the Elements, and when they were revealed, Discord took no chances, striking down their Bearers before they could be use them. Thus the world was ended. But suppose Discord had no need to strike? Suppose it found the Elements already in its grasp, and could torment the world at its leisure, unafraid of any retaliation? Might it not let its guard down? Might not Celestia and Luna, no longer hopeless with the Bearers still alive, be able to devise some counterattack, once Discord believed itself safe?”

The Mule blinked. “Hold on, now. You mean you wants to—”

“To give the Elements to Discord. Yes! Exactly!” There was an almost manic look on Sassaflash‘s face now, her wings outspread and quivering with excitement. “Now, finding the Elements will be impossible using simple brute force methods—this is clear from Discord’s failure to locate them—but Celestia will have hidden them with cleverness, not with strength, and with cleverness they may be uncovered. No doubt there will be concealing spells, hiding them from scrying, but if they exist, they can be found. We just need some way of tracking them down, some way of catching their scent, so to speak—”

She came to an abrupt halt, apparently struck by another idea, and the Mule took advantage of the opportunity to interject, “But Miss Sassaflash, ain’t that just what we’s trying to stop? Discord getting power? We can’t just serve up them Elements on a platter!”

“Mr. Mule, if it does not obtain them from us, it will obtain them by force—and by a force so mighty that it will cast Equestria into smoldering ruin. We must lose in order to win! Yes. Yes! And to find the Elements in the first place—Oh, that is delicious. Hah! And then, to prevent the world from having been destroyed, to make that all unreal—foal’s play! Foal’s play compared to that! It only needs to be thought of, and that will only take a moment. Come, Mr. Mule! We shall be the pebble on the tracks that derails the train of fate!” With another gleeful cackle, she whipped around, mane and tail flying through the air, and cantered back towards Ponyville, calling over her shoulder one last time, “Come! We have work to do!”

But the Mule did not follow; not at first. He stood there, his ears hanging limp on each side of his head and a hint of fear in his soft, dark eyes, and he tried to decide whether Sassaflash really believed what she had just said, or whether she was trying to lure him into helping her destroy the world. Had she told the truth when she had spoken of what she had seen in the future? What if it had all been a lie? What if her plan had failed and the Bearers of the Elements had successfully sealed Discord away, and she had somehow returned back in time in an effort to salvage what she had worked so hard to achieve?

There were good reasons for him to take her at her word; Sassaflash could hardly have traveled in time, after all, if something horrible hadn’t happened to disable Celestia and Luna, and in any case unless her reformation had truly been genuine, her first action upon obtaining the key to the gates of time would have been to go back and rescue her mother. These were compelling and rational arguments. Neither of them, though, occurred to the Mule. Nor, for that matter, was he swayed by what he told himself had convinced him, muttering, “I don’t reckon she’d of acted so durn tetched if she was a-trying to trick me.” What ultimately settled his mind and set him hobbling back down the trail after the pegasus was the memory of the look in her eyes—haunted, desperate, and sincere—as she held out her hoof to him. She couldn’t have faked that. Nopony could have.

Author's Note

So! I was expecting and hoping for this to be the final chapter, but as it turned out the events I wanted to cover ended up taking far, far more space than I had originally anticipated, so...well, here we are, in the calm before the storm. Certain events in the season finale airing tomorrow will likely dash this tale's compatibility with canon (although maybe not; we shall see), which is one of the reasons I had hoped to get the story finished before the finale aired, but...alas. Expect events of great pith and moment come next chapter.

Chapter 21

The western trees were standing black and tall against a reddening sky when Sassaflash gave one last tug on the straps attached to a cart (which, the Mule suspected, she had stolen), stepped back, and declared herself satisfied. Firmly tied within the cart was a wooden mesh of multiple interlocking frames, each daubed with countless angular symbols written in the Dark Lord’s own blood. The day had been spent in a whirl of preparation, the Dark Lord Sassaflash moving like a mare possessed and leaping from thought to thought and task to task with frightening speed. Excursions to the Dreamlands had been made, complex and arcane magical devices had been constructed, Angel and Crowded Parchment had each been sent off to fetch assorted items or attend to various duties, and hour by hour, the Sun crept across the sky, marking down the time until apocalypse. As the day wore on, the Mule had found himself casting nervous glances up at the sky, dreading to see how much of the day was gone. For her part, Sassaflash seemed to pay the Sun no mind, utterly lost in a frenzy of action, although she did once pause to bark at the Mule, “For goodness’ sake, Mr. Mule, the Sun will move whether you look at it or not. Kindly come help me with this knot and stop worrying about time; it will take care of itself.” He had found it difficult to take this advice to heart.

At last, Sassaflash turned to the Mule and declared, “All is in readiness. We have little enough time to spare, but I think we may just be able to make it. You will accompany me, yes? The walk is long, but I can easily pull you in the cart. It and the causal subversion grid are light, and I can manage the extra weight—and in any case, I would appreciate your company.”

The Mule nodded acquiescence. “Alrighty, if’n you reckon it ain’t a-going to slow you up too much.” A pause. “Where is we headed, again?”

“To the Everfree forest, of course,” said Sassaflash. She blinked. “Wait, did I not mention that? Surely I must have—well, no matter. You know the rest of the plan, at any rate.”

“Right,” nodded the Mule. “Most on it, leastwise. The important bits. I know they’s a plan. Might be a little fuzzy on some o’ the details. You didn’t actually say much anent how everything fit together when you was yelpin’ out all them directions.”

For a moment the pegasus just stared at him. Then, raising an eyebrow, she asked, “Details like, for example, why we’re going to the Everfree? And what I intend to retrieve there? And the purpose of the request I made of your wife? Little details like those?”

The Mule shuffled his hooves awkwardly. “Might could be.”

“Get in the cart,” said the Dark Lord. “I’ll explain on the way.”

The journey through the Everfree forest was not what the Mule would have called uneventful—any day which included ballistic cockatrices, a cragodile vs. dragon fight, and a pack of flaming timberwolves (“Nilgh’ri Fm’latgh!” … “Oh, don’t look so horrified, Mr. Mule. They’ll find a lake or a river or something to put themselves out in. Shall we move on?”) could hardly be called that—but they did at least make it through the woods unmauled and with all their limbs intact and in their proper places, which, for the Everfree, was about all that anypony could reasonably expect. After perhaps an hour or two of travel, they emerged from the forest’s shadows at the edge of a great gorge, the clear sky overhead glittering with a web of stars. Some ways along the cliff’s edge, they could just make out a rickety little wooden bridge spanning the ravine, and on the other side a vast, many-turreted shadow rose up against the sky, blotting out the light of the stars. The Mule gave a long, low whistle. “Is that…?”

Sassaflash nodded. “It is indeed. Behold, Mr. Mule, the Castle of the Two Sisters—Celestia and Luna’s ancient demesne, before Luna fell to corruption and was banished to the moon. But we have no time to appreciate it; time is of the essence.” Straining against the harness binding her to the cart, she stepped forward, pulling for the distant bridge.

The Mule’s personal misgivings notwithstanding, the aged ropes and planks crossing the gorge bore up bravely under their weight, and they passed safely to the other side. Fragments of stone carved with faded reliefs lay half-covered in the undergrowth around them, and bits of rubble hidden beneath the moss cracked and bumped beneath the wagon’s wheels. Cold stone walls rose up beyond, their angles worn smooth by the passage of centuries. Sassaflash halted before the gothic arch of the castle’s gate, and looked back at the Mule. “Keep a careful watch, Mr. Mule. When the Bearers of the Elements of Harmony faced her here, Nightmare Moon shattered the stone orbs that had protected the Elements, believing that by so doing she would destroy the Elements themselves. We must find the fragments of those orbs, for they bear the essence of the Elements—their scent, if you will—upon them.”

“Right,” nodded the Mule, as Sassaflash tugged the cart up the low steps leading into the castle’s crumbling antechamber, roofless and ruined. In the center of the room stood the carved stone array that had once held the Elements, its outstretched arms moss-covered and empty.

The necromancer trudged by it without stopping, only commenting as they passed, “A shame that Nightmare Moon did not see fit to confront the Bearers here. Ah, well.” Bumping their way up another low flight of stairs, they soon reached the castle’s great hall, its towering walls still standing tall and proud above the stone flags once trod by the dignitaries and nobles of a bygone era. The remnants of decaying tapestries fluttered silently far overhead, waving to and fro in the night breeze like seaweed drifting beneath the sea, while far overhead the Moon rested in the sky, glowing serene and bright.

Shadowed arches lined the hall, each opening on to a long passage or a deep-set flight of stairs stretching up or down into darkness. After gazing at these for a moment, the Mule observed, “I don’t reckon you can pull the wagon up them stairs, Miss Sassaflash.”

“No,” agreed the pegasus. “I must leave you now, I am afraid. Kindly explore the level passages; return here if you find the fragments, and await my return.” She unhooked herself from the cart, and after helping the Mule to the ground she trotted up one of the stairs to their left, a silvery wraith in the starlight.

The Mule’s search was not particularly fruitful. There were pieces of stone everywhere, scattered in random piles and lone chunks of rubble throughout the halls, but none seemed as though they might have been part of the orbs that had housed the Elements or were gathered together in the sort of place that it seemed likely Nightmare Moon would have chosen as a place to confront the Bearers. He wished he had paid better attention to the stories of their adventures that had circulated following their return to Ponyville.

Regardless, he soon found himself running out of rooms to explore; the castle’s architect seemed to have been inordinately fond of stairs, and it wasn’t long before he was forced to return to the great hall to seek out another passage. He had hardly begun to retrace his steps, though, when he heard the echo of the Dark Lord’s voice, calling from somewhere ahead. Hurrying forward as best he was able, he found her in the center of the hall, struggling to remove the nested wooden framework from the cart. Beside her on the ground was a small pile of jagged, pale white stones. At the sound of her friend’s return, she raised her head and smiled.

“Ah! Excellent. I believe I have succeeded in locating the fragments, Mr. Mule; it is difficult to tell, of course, but as near as I could make out they seemed to match the descriptions, and I was able to piece several of them together into about half an orb, so...yes. Yes, I think we may be reasonably confident. Would you place them into the causal subversion grid—the wooden thing, there—while I wheel the cart out of range? Anywhere will do, so long as they’re enclosed within the structure.”

With a nod, the old creature shuffled over to the fragments and began to push them inside the wooden lattice, as directed. There was an odd, almost glassy appearance to the white stones, notwithstanding their rough surfaces, and as he piled them together they clinked musically. Looking back over his shoulder, he called, “Miss Sassaflash? You said you was a-going to call up some manner o’ beastes to hunt down the Elements; do you reckon they’s up for it? The Princesses wouldn’t a-cut no corners when they was hiding ‘em, arter all.”

The clatter of wooden wheels on stone outside stilled, and after a moment Sassaflash trotted back inside. “Indeed not.” She stepped forward, inspected the Mule’s work, and gave a curt nod. “Satisfactory. It is true that we must be a little...unconventional in seeking out our hunters. It may be, indeed, that there are no creatures of this world who would be up to the task.” Laying a hoof on the apex of the structure, she hissed, “Y’uln syha’hai,” and looked back, one eyebrow raised. “How fortunate, then, that we are not limited to creatures of this world. Step back! We must not be near when they come.”

Startled by the sudden urgency in her eyes and voice, the Mule wheeled around and hurried for the front antechamber. After a moment’s delay the Dark Lord joined him, an almost vicious smile on her face. “This should be far enough—and you would not want to miss this sight! Few mortals have seen what we are about to see, Mr. Mule, and even fewer have seen it and lived. But we will!” It was hard to make out in the hall beyond, but the Mule thought he saw the air around the wooden framework twist and shiver, distorting the view of the stone columns and stairs beyond. For a moment nothing more happened, and then, with a muted crack, the little pile of rubble within the lattice flickered out of existence. “To the past...” whispered Sassaflash. The fragments reappeared, seemingly none the worse for wear. The necromancer’s eyes narrowed. “...And back to the present. Now for the test...We need hunters, Mr. Mule, to chase down the Elements for us. They must be keen-nosed, never veering from their quarry. Implacable beasts, that once on the scent can never be waylaid, and against whom walls and spells are useless.” A brief pause. “We need Hounds.”

Another crack rang out in the great hall beyond, this time not muted but sharp and raw as shattering stone. Something creaked in the gloom, bent by unnatural strains, and there was another series of sharp, volcanic cracks. A diffuse blue-violet light began to glimmer in the hall, centered on the wooden framework. At first the Mule couldn’t make out a source, but soon he realized that it was shining from the edges of the pieces of wood—and the edges of the broken stones—and the angles of the hall’s flagstones—he took an involuntary step backward. Sassaflash laid a hoof on his shoulder. “Hush, Mr. Mule. I do not know if they can hear, but if they can, it would be best if we did not attract their attention.”

More cracking. The floor near the wooden lattice shifted, the stone flags twisting and grating against one another. In the wavering foxfire the Mule could see their edges deforming, all their curves and bends forced into sharpness by unseen forces. Angles crept along the edges of the broken orbs; polygons blossomed in the soft, curved grain of the wooden framework; facets flickered in the air itself, bending distant stone carvings and curved tapestries into hard-edged gargoyles. Jagged wedges imposed themselves upon existence, straightening out every curve and forcing anything smooth into fierce, sharp-edged tesserae, and beside him, the Mule heard Sassaflash whisper, “Of course! They don’t even have bodies; they themselves are angles!”

Within the great hall, reality slowly disintegrated. Poisonous blue light hammered against the Mule’s retinas, forcing him to look away from the center of the splintered madness infesting the air, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw the sharpnesses gnawing at existence gather themselves together, twisting everything in the center of the hall into a kaleidoscopic nightmare as blue-black smoke hissed from their edges. There was one last, snapping crack like the breaking of worlds, and then the entire distortion erupted up into the sky, shaping the stars themselves into a polygonal network of lines and angles. It—they—hung there for a moment, and then flung themselves due north, trailing cyan demonlight.

For a long moment, neither the pegasus nor mule said a word, simply staring up in awe at the stars, now fallen back into their normal, sane positions. Nearby, bits of shattered stone fell clinking to the ground, freed of the warped space that had held them in place. The Dark Lord Sassaflash drew a deep breath, and said, “Cry havoc, Mr. Mule. Cry havoc, and let slip the Hounds of Tindalos.”

“Right,” said the Mule, still staring up, his eyes dazzled. “Right. Now what?”

The pegasus raised an eyebrow, evidently miffed that her dramatic declaration had been met with nothing more than a “Now what?”, but she only said, “Well. The Hounds are on the scent of the Elements now, having tasted their essence on the orb fragments, and will seek them out wherever they lie. The matter of Discord is now out of our hooves; that will be decided either in Ponyville or Canterlot, by Angel and Crowded Parchment or by Sweetie Belle. It depends, of course, on where the Elements are hidden: in Ponyville, where the Bearers can easily access them, or in Canterlot, where they can be best protected by Celestia and Luna. There was also, of course, the possibility that they had been hidden here, where presumably ancient wards to keep them safe are already in place, but as we have seen that was not the case. At any rate, we must devote our energies to a different task: erasing the reality in which I destroyed the world.”

“Back to Ponyville, then, like you said?” asked the Mule.

“Indeed. Back to Ponyville. We have a foalnapping to commit.”

It was all Twist’s fault, really, thought Sweetie Belle, as she thrashed her hooves back and forth, treading air far above the roaring cataracts of Neighagra Falls. She had been doing just fine on that tightrope before the filly shouted to her from across the gorge, asking her if she wanted to have some ice cream, which of course threw off her balance and sent her tumbling over towards the churning waters below. Fortunately, she had remembered how to fly just in time, but because her teeth were too heavy she wasn’t able to get any real lift, and could only hover precariously in midair. She just needed to shake them loose; that would solve everything. The little filly began to whip her head back and forth, and was rewarded by the sensation of a few molars flying free. She could already feel herself getting lighter.

“Sweetie Belle! Are you Sweetie Belle?”

The filly craned her neck back in surprise, trying to spot the pony who had just called out. There, not far overhead; a mare—a mule, not a pony—was sitting on a little white cloud, looking down at her. Sweetie Belle blinked. “Um...Yes? Yes, I’m Sweetie Belle.”

“Thank Celestia. I’ve been through half a dozen dreams so far. I was beginning to think I’d never find you.”

With a confused tilt of her head, Sweetie Belle said, “What do you mean, dreams? And could we talk about this later? I’m kinda busy now; I need to get rid of my teeth so I can fly better. There’s this cavepony, see, and—”

“You’re dreaming, Sweetie,” said the mule, flatly. “You normally can’t fly, losing your teeth won’t change that, there is no cavepony, and the waterfall isn’t real.”

“Oh.” Sweetie Belle considered this. A thought occurred to her. “Are you a part of my dream, then?”

The mare shook her head. “No, I’m not from around these parts, as you might say. I’m the Dodge Junction Mule, and I’m a Dreamer. Has Sassaflash told you about the Dreamlands?”

“Yes, I know about that.” Sweetie Belle eyed the Dodge Junction Mule uncertainly as the cloud on which she was resting drifted downward, bringing them eye to eye. “You know Miss Sassaflash?”

With an air of some distaste, the mule said, “I do, at that. She’s a mighty queer creature, that one, and if I were you I wouldn’t...” She stopped, drew a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. “Sorry. Now’s not the time nor the place. Here, this is for you.” Withdrawing a folded slip of paper from somewhere in the depths of the cloud, she passed it over to Sweetie Belle. “It’s real urgent. Read it, and when you’re ready I’ll help you wake up. There’s a lot that needs doing, and it might be that you’re the only pony that can do it.”

The paper unfolded in the grasp of Sweetie Belle’s magic, revealing a paragraph or two of writing in the close, spidery script of the Dark Lord Sassaflash.

Sweetie Belle—

Made a mistake. Should never have had you release Discord. My fault, not yours. Don’t blame yourself. Need you to help stop it. It wants the Elements of Harmony, and will do bad things to Rarity & aliae to get them. Need to give Elements to it before it tries to take them. Make it think it’s won, put it off its guard, let Princesses defeat it.

At 1 AM tonight, look towards the south, towards Ponyville & Everfree. Look for blue light, maybe noise like thunder. If light goes to Ponyville, don’t worry; Angel and Parchment will attend to. If comes towards Canterlot, need your help. When it arrives, follow it at a distance. Do not go near it. If things are inside light, & if they have eyes, do not let them see you. It will go to Canterlot Castle, most likely. Sending you lock-plant clippings at midnight; hold to any lock, and lock will open. Follow light. It will go to where Elements are hidden. When it disappears, retrieve Elements. Discord should sense them & appear. Give to Discord, be very polite to it, be safe, protect yourself, tell it I told you to give it Elements, & tell it where to find me if it asks. Do what it wants. Be safe. Be safe.

Please do this. Please trust me. Please forgive me.

—Sassaflash

After reading through the letter twice, Sweetie Belle looked up at the Dodge Junction Mule. She suddenly felt horribly cold, cold and confused and alone. The mare must have seen the fear in her eyes, for she said, “Listen, sweetheart, I said I’d deliver that letter and I’ve delivered it, but don’t you think for one moment you’ve got to do everything she says just ‘cause she says it. I don’t trust that mare. If you don’t feel safe doing—”

“No!” The word came out in a high-pitched squeak. It wants the Elements of Harmony, and will do bad things to Rarity... “No, I can do it. It’s not that bad.” She willed the cold clinging to her veins and thickening in the pit of her stomach to melt away. If Sassaflash said it needed to be done, it needed to be done—and she could do it. Sassaflash had faced Tsathoggua, after all, hadn’t she? Well, she could face Discord, if she had to. “I’ll be fine. I’m ready for you to wake me up now.”

The Dodge Junction Mule gave her a doubtful look. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” nodded the little unicorn. “Yes, I’m sure. She didn’t say anything else, did she?”

“Hrm.” The mare raised a hoof, and gently placed it on Sweetie Belle’s forehead. The world began to blur, drifting into misty blackness as the dreaming world dissolved away. Through the haze Sweetie Belle heard, or thought she heard, the Dodge Junction Mule’s echoing voice say, “Only that she was proud of you.”

With a soft click, the front door of a tall, white Canterlot building unlocked itself. A moment later it swung upon on silent hinges, and a little unicorn filly slipped out into the night, easing the door shut behind her. Thirty minutes past midnight. Right. She had time. Returning a little wad of pulped plant matter to her saddlebag—the lock-plant clippings had arrived finely shredded, for some reason—she slid over into the shadow of one of the nearby Canterlot homes, avoiding the moonlight as her mentor had taught her. Soft and swift as a minnow in a stream, she darted through the streets of the city, and soon arrived at her destination: a south-facing parapet she remembered seeing earlier in the day, when Miss Cheerilee had been taking their class on a tour of Canterlot. Scooting over to one edge of the wide, sweeping wall, where—she hoped—she would be difficult to spot by anypony looking from the direction of the city, she peered out into the blackness, the free mountain wind whistling chill in her mane.

Countless stars shone overhead, filling the great bowl of the sky with light, while below the ramparts of the Canterhorn dropped away into a vast dark abyss. Sweetie Belle could almost have believed that there was no bottom to that pit; that it just kept dropping, forever and ever, down into the heart of the world. Somewhere out there, though, she knew, was Ponyville, and beyond it the Everfree forest, untamed and crawling with life. She squinted, trying to see some hint of a feature which might allow her to pin down the location of something, anything, in that slumbering valley. No such luck. All she could do was wait, then, and hope she saw whatever-it-was when it turned up.

Time passed, although Sweetie Belle, impatiently waiting for something—anything!—to happen, might have differed on that point. At last, though, as she stared unblinking out into the void, trying to stay awake and wondering how long she’d be able to succeed, she caught a glimmer of blue light, shimmering a bit to the west of where she had thought the Everfree was. It flared up, and for a moment shone almost as brightly as the stars overhead before fading away again to a dimmer but still visible glow. After hovering in place for perhaps five or ten seconds, it abruptly threw itself northwards, gliding straight as an arrow through the sleeping valley. From this distance, it seemed to be moving at a painful crawl, but as she watched its progress the unicorn realized that it must be moving along at a terrific pace, screaming through the air far faster than a pony could gallop—and when it got here, she would have to follow it…

“Ponyfeathers!” exclaimed the filly, thrilling a little at the word—Rarity would have been shocked, she was sure, if she had heard her say it. She had to get to the castle before that blue thing got there; had to be on the scene so she could follow it to wherever it was going. Rearing up, she twisted around and hurried off into the night, trying to move as silently and as quickly as possible. Far behind and far below her, the Hounds raced on.

Sweetie Belle found infiltrating the castle to be a surprisingly simple exercise. The raskovnik helped a lot, of course, particularly after she discovered that it appeared to interpret “door” and “lock” along extremely liberal lines. She soon realized that the castle, having been remodeled and rearranged countless times in its thousand year long existence, was filled with old passageways from centuries earlier that had been blocked up and sealed behind walls—to such an extent, in fact, that she found herself able to go almost anywhere without going near the main hallways, simply slipping from one chamber to another through ancient portals that had been long forgotten generations ago. After some exploration, she settled down in front of a high, south-facing tower window with a good view of the valley beyond, and set herself to waiting.

This time, the wait wasn’t long at all. The fierce blue light was brighter now, climbing rapidly through the air as it approached Canterlot, and soon it had reached the city itself, racing over the turrets and towers of the buildings below. Its passage was oddly jagged, swerving to the left or right with unnerving suddenness, and Sweetie found herself irresistibly reminded of a cat chasing down a desperately dodging mouse. As it swept nearer she thought she could make out the edges of sharp angles within the glow, splintering her view of the city’s walls and buildings like light passing through a faceted crystal.

She had little time to observe the approaching thing, though. It was soaring up almost straight towards her, and for a horrible moment she thought it would plunge right into the room where she was waiting. Fortunately, after clipping the top of one of the city’s spires with a sharp snap, its angle of attack jerked a bit to the right, and instead of striking her it rushed headlong into the exterior wall on one side of her own room with a rumbling, grating fusillade of cracks. This was followed almost immediately by a diminishing series of further faint crunching and cracking sounds as the leaping pack of angles stabbed deeper into the castle, and then...silence.

The lavender-maned filly slowly lowered herself down from her perch. It had been so sudden. Even here, right next to where it had entered, she hadn’t stood a chance of being able to follow it. Maybe, she thought, it had left some kind of trail behind.

Getting into the room by which the Hounds had entered the castle was somewhat difficult, as there was no door, ancient or modern, joining the two chambers, but after a little exploration she managed to find her way. At first glance it looked as though her fears had been confirmed and the angular things had left no trace behind other than a peculiarly acrid scent, but after peering a bit more closely at her surroundings she noticed a strange latticework of cracks in the chamber’s furniture, walls, and floor, with the cracking most intense and widespread along a path stretching from the chamber’s window to the opposite wall. She edged the door open, peered down the hall outside to make sure that no guards were present, and set off in pursuit of her quarry.

In the darkness of the castle’s interior hallways, lit only by the occasional flickering taper and the reflected light from a distant unicorn guard making their rounds, Sweetie Belle found that the cracks made a much less reliable guide than she had hoped, often being too fine too see or disappearing only to inexplicably reappear several yards further on. She was helped, though, by the odd, choking smell that the things had left behind them, as well as occasional wisps of blue-black smoke that clung together in cloudlets, seemingly reluctant to disperse. In this way, over the course of perhaps thirty minutes, she made her way into the depths of the castle, slipping from one side room to another and guessing as best she could the things’ trajectory when their trail led through some area too open or well-lit for her to dare.

At last the track ended, sweeping down into a long, ornate hall decorated with many fine stained-glass windows. There were almost no cracks at all here—perhaps, thought Sweetie Belle, the things had just been moving so quickly as they neared their quarry that they had left none—but their scent, though faint, was unmistakable, and a wisp or two of smoke still drifted near a tall door set at one end of the hall, its thick wood dyed a rich blend of violet, rose, and purple. A golden sunburst had been engraved in its very center, and as the unicorn drew near she saw that a faint wisp of smoke was dribbling out of a hole in the sunburst’s center.

Well. She didn’t hear any cracking, so whatever those things were, they were probably far away by now, and she didn’t have time to dawdle. Retrieving the pulped raskovnik from her saddlebag, she held it up to the door, and was rewarded with a flash of pure blue light, clear and wholesome where the Hounds’ glow had been harsh and glaring, radiating out from the carved Sun. Flowing along thin channels in the door’s surface, the light illuminated six circular depressions in its panels, and then intensified to a glow so strong Sweetie Belle was afraid it would attract the attention of somepony somewhere else in the castle. The door slid open…

...And Sweetie Belle gagged, overcome by a sudden flood of the same intense, poisonous odor she had tracked this far. Great clouds of roiling smoke billowed out of the chamber beyond, coiling greasily out across the floor and snaking past the filly’s hocks. The little pony staggered back a few yards from the door, choking and waving her hoof to try to clear the air. It didn’t particularly help. After retreating further down the hall and gulping down a few lungfuls of fresh air, she scurried back to the door, where the brilliant light had, by now, faded away.

Within a small chamber beyond the door, still wreathed in curling drifts of the acrid smoke, was a modest pedestal, atop which rested a richly decorated chest studded with gemstones. It looked extremely important. Wasting no time, Sweetie Belle brought out the raskovnik once more and held it up against the chest’s front.

Nothing happened. For a moment the filly was afraid that she had somehow used up the raskovnik’s power, but then it occurred to her to try the lid. Rearing up on her hind legs to get access to it, she gave it an experimental shove. Evidently it had never been locked in the first place, for it swung wide easily.

There, resting within the chest, were five golden necklaces and a tiara, glittering and beautiful even in the dim light of the hall. Sweetie Belle reached out for the nearest of them, a graceful necklace embellished with a royal purple diamond—the Element that her sister, Rarity, had borne.

There was a hacking cough immediately behind her.

Sweetie Belle whipped around, a chill seizing her spine, and let out what should have been an ear-piercing scream but somehow came out only as a frightened squeak. Lounging before her was a chimerical monster, fanged, horned, and surrounded by the drifting, shadowy banks of smoke left behind by the Hounds. It blinked mad, fiery eyes, and smiled a sharp-toothed smile at the little pony as it crawled forward on mismatched forelimbs, one a giant paw and the other clawed talons. Wings rose up from its back, one webbed and sharp-tipped and the other long and feathered. She had seen it before, of course, in the sculpture gardens just that morning, but that was nothing like seeing it here, vivid, alive and moving. Her voice a timorous whisper, Sweetie Belle murmured, “Discord!”

The thing started to chuckle, which turned midway into another melodramatic hacking cough. Waving its paw carelessly, it dispersed the smoke, and said in a throaty, jovial voice, “That’s me! I’m going to have to have a word with Celestia about how she keeps her castle. The smell! Hah!” It paused, and snaked its way around Sweetie Belle to leap up into the chest where the Elements rested, shrinking as it did so to fit in amongst them. Peering over the chest’s rim at Sweetie Belle, it added, “And the castle’s got mice, too, I see.” Sweetie Belle felt a horrible shivering sensation sweep through her body, and suddenly felt much, much...smaller. Her hooves felt colder, too, and softer, almost like—she started squeaking in terror as she caught her own reflection in the polished floor, huge incisors in her mouth and pink, hairless ears rising above her tiny head. An eagle claw swooped down from overhead, and Discord plucked her up by her long, hairless tail, lifting her to eye level. It had grown to its full size again, and was wearing all six of the Elements, the tiara on its misshapen head and the five necklaces strung one after another down its long, snakelike neck. The draconequus tossed her carelessly into the air and caught her in his talons, chuckling to himself. His claws curled in, enclosing her in darkness, and then sprung open again, having transformed Sweetie Belle back into a pony. Her body shaking, the filly managed to squeak, “Th-the E-elements are f-for you. Miss Sassaflash t-told me to get them for you.”

Discord reared up, looking down the bridge of its snout at Sweetie Belle, and tut-tutted. “Oh, come now, I’m not going to hurt you, heh heh. I just want to have a little fun! Don’t lose your head.” Reaching up its paw, it plucked her head off her shoulders, and Sweetie Belle watched in horror as her headless body collapsed, lifeless, to the tiled floor. Leaving her head floating in midair, it unscrewed its own head from its neck as well, and taking both heads in its grasp, it brought them level with one another and cheerfully said, “Can’t we have a nice face-to-face conversation without—Oh, alright, alright, I’ll put your head back on. Stop screaming.” Setting the filly back down on the ground again, the draconequus flopped forward on to its belly, propping up its head with its forelimbs like a filly listening to stories at a slumber party. “Now, delighted as I am with Miss Sassaflash‘s thoughtful gift—I always have loved a good accessory, she knows me so well!—I’m ashamed to say that I can’t remember making her acquaintance. So embarrassing! Ha ha ha! White Stockings would have my head. Is she one of the bearers of these little trinkets nowadays, do you know?” It gestured at the Elements, which had left its neck and head and, shrunken, were now strung on a little charm bracelet dangling from its scrawny wrist.

Sweetie Belle shook her head, trying to ignore the cold sweat running down her flanks, trying not to cry. “N-no, that’s—other ponies.”

“Really?” The draconequus’ eyes narrowed, and the little pony could have sworn she saw a spark of fire flaring within their glowing depths. “And who might those other ponies be?”

She hesitated. Discord saw the hesitation, and smiled a smile that was just a little too wide and just a little too toothy to be at all reassuring.

Do what it wants. Be safe, thought Sweetie Belle. I’m so sorry, Rarity. “They’re...they’re six ponies. Twilight Sparkle has the Element of Magic, Fluttershy has the Element of Kindness, Pinkie Pie has Laughter, Rainbow Dash has Loyalty, Applejack has Honesty, and Rarity—” She swallowed. “Rarity has Generosity.”

Discord, who had whipped out a little notebook from some pocket dimension and had been furiously scribbling away on it with a quill pen that was about two yards long, finished taking its notes, swallowed the notebook, and stuck the quill back into its wing, where it shrank down to a slightly more reasonable size. “Little pony-whose-name-has-temporarily-slipped-my-mind, I like you! Ha ha! So helpful!” It rolled upside down, floating in midair and grinning hugely. “In fact, I feel myself coming down with a case—tchoo!—of gratitude. Is there anything you want, little filly? Sadness? Joy? A present? A colt? Silver? Gold? A secret that’s never been told?”

“Please,” whispered Sweetie Belle, “Just don’t hurt them!”

“Hurt them? Ha ha ha!” The draconequus turned a cartwheel in midair, laughing uproariously. “Where would be the fun in that? We’ll have a lovely time together; we’ll play games, make jokes, laugh, sing, scream, dance...I’ll drive them mad with delight! Or with something, anyway. I haven’t made up my mind yet. Hoo hoo hoo! This is going to be so much fun! Here I was, worried I was going to have to turn them into stained glass or something to get them out of the way; now we’re all going to be able to really enjoy one another’s company.” It floated up towards the ceiling, slowly rotating as it chuckled to itself, and then abruptly straightened its long, serpentine body out. “Right, I’m bored now. Goodbye, little filly! Tarakhe Basileus, scion of Tartarus, gives you his regards! Ha aha hahaha ha!” With one last burst of manic laughter, the mad God snapped its talons, and disappeared in a blinding flash of white light.

Sweetie Belle stood there, alone in the hall, for some moments. Then, moving like a pony in a dream, she shut the chest that had held the Elements, pulled the door enclosing it shut, and quietly, fearfully, furiously vowed never to set hoof in Sassaflash‘s cottage again as long as she lived.

Author's Note

...Well, that's probably the shortest period of time betwixt chapters thus far. Hopefully the speed with which this'un came out hasn't affected the quality! There's only one chapter left to this tale, but it, I'm afraid, won't be up quite so quickly; I've got a number of pesky meatspace obligations to attend to, and until they're dealt with I can't in good conscience work on this. They should be cleared up before December's over, though, so it shouldn't be that long. Thanks for hanging around so long with this story; the end is in sight!

Chapter 22

The Sun rose.

As the first rays of dawn filtered across Equestria, probing into the dying night, they cast long, weird shadows that flickered and leapt in uncouth ways. Who should fear this, though? Every morning as the Sun rose higher in the sky, asserting its dominance, the spindly shadows always shortened, assuming their proper, everyday proportions and shedding the eerie mantle they had worn in the morning twilight. They never lingered, always fading harmlessly away before they could become aware of themselves and their power. That was the way of things. It had always been the way of things.

No longer.

Gangling things that had once been rabbits tottered up on stilt-like legs, their tiny bodies swaying two yards above the ground. The long, clawing shadows of trees detached themselves at the roots and went swimming away across the fields like two-dimensional hydra, snatching with their tentacle-branches at the smaller, darting shadows of shrubs flowing through the grass in huddled little shoals. One or two bushes had uprooted themselves and were crawling and flopping across the ground after their errant shadows, pulling themselves along with their branches, but most seemed limited to flailing ineffectually whenever one of the escaped shades happened to glide within reach.

In her stone-walled dungeon of a laboratory, the Dark Lord Sassaflash shooed a scuttling alembic away from the spidery sigils she was chalking on the floor, sending it scurrying off into the shadows under the great brass-bellied cauldron in the corner. After scratching a few more runes on the worn stones, she spat the piece of chalk out and, raising her head, called, “Mr. Mule? Were you able to locate the raskovnik?”

“Yep,” came the hollow, muffled answer from somewhere overhead. There was a sound of rattling wheels on the winding stone spiral stairs that led down into the laboratory, and not long afterward the Mule appeared, sliding his wheelcart carefully down and trying not to wince as the wheels bumped from one step to the next. “She—I mean, you—ain’t woke up yet?”

Sassaflash glanced to one side, where a blonde pegasus lay unconscious on the hard stone cobbles of the dungeon, her turquoise coat a dirty green in the flickering torchlight of the wall sconces. She shook her head. “No, I am still sedated. The ether may, perhaps, be wearing off at this point, but even if so the spell I cast should keep me under.” With a frown, she added, “Really, breaking in and drugging me was far too easy. I need to reevaluate my home security spells; even granting that I had prior knowledge of what they all were, it should not have been that easy to subvert them. Did you happen to look out the window while you were upstairs? How are things developing?”

With a shake of his head, the Mule responded, “It don’t look good. The sky’s gone all green and the clouds is pink—and they’s things blowing up, somewhere off Sweet Apple Acres way. I heared ‘em.”

“Hm. Discord’s testing its strength, then.” She bit her lip. “Fhtagn! I’ve underestimated it, I just know it. I should never have gambled on its hubris; I had no right to be so confident in that.” Turning back to the concentric rings and angled symbols scrawled out on the floor, she sighed and continued, “Nothing to be done about it now, though; all the pieces are in place, and the game must be played, to whatever end.”

“You done your best.”

“Hah! Yes, my best—and my worst. We shall see which is stronger in the end. Did you bring the balloons? Yes? Excellent. Kindly tie one off for me and pass it over. No, don’t inflate it, just tie it. I am reasonably sure this should work, but it would do well to test it, nonetheless. Best get out the raskovnik, as well.”

Taking the proffered balloon, Sassaflash laid it in the very center of the chalked diagrams and sigils upon the floor. After peering at it with bleary, sleep-deprived eyes for a moment, she took the chalk in her mouth again and made a few modifications to the surrounding sigils. “I wish I had gotten a chance to get some rest; I can’t think straight. It’s just as well we’re testing this on the balloon first...the raskovnik, if you please.”

“Already?” The old creature held out a clover-like sprig. “What about all them chants and dancing you did when we was coming back from Hippoborea?”

Sassaflash shook her head. “Not necessary. I was forced to construct and maintain everything myself, there, but here I have the resources to conduct matters in a more efficient manner. The ‘chants and dancing,’ as you put it, are encoded in these drawings. What matters is that the Aklo is understood and held in its entirety within a mind, not that it take this particular form or that. Indeed, it’s perfectly possible to cast simple spells without saying a single word; if I recall correctly, you’ve seen me do it before, when Starshade attempted to bind me back in the Hollow Shades.”

She lapsed into silence, her face clouded. The Mule shifted in his wheelcart’s harness. “You ain’t heard nothing anent what happened to your sister after you done gave her worrywort?”

A short shake of the head. “No. But it may be that no news is good news. Not that my family has ever been particularly communicative with me. Or I with them.” The pegasus frowned. “I don’t think that rift can ever be healed. Even were it not for our history, we’re too different now. I’ve seen and done too much to return to their frightened little world. I would be just another monster to them; a horror from the outer dark.” Whisking around, she returned her attention to the limp red balloon lying within the mesh of diagrams and sigils. “But none of that matters now. To the matter at hoof.” Reaching out, she let a single leaflet of raskovnik flutter down out of the air to touch the balloon. For a moment it seemed to freeze in place, as though it had suddenly fallen against a drop of sticky sap, and then with an abrupt snap both leaf and balloon disappeared. The Dark Lord continued to stare at the spot where they had rested with narrowed eyes, and a moment later there was another mane-ruffling burst of displaced air as the balloon reappeared, apparently none the worse for wear. Sassaflash permitted herself a quick, fierce little smile, and turned to the Mule.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Mule—yes! An apology for my own stupidity. I could have spared you your broken bones, if I had only had the wit to see it at the time. When we teleported back to Ponyville, I gambled that the distance would be great enough to avoid any harsh discontinuities in space, and you paid the price—but I need never have made that wager in the first place.” She raised a hoof, gesturing towards something far beyond the grimy, soot-dusted stone ceiling of her laboratory. “As though vast distances are a rare thing in this cosmos! Idiot. I should have seen it.”

The Mule shrugged. “If’n you say so.”

Sassaflash made a small, half-formed noise, and then blinked once or twice, unsure how to respond. After a moment the Mule took pity on her, and with a smile said, “Beg pardon, Miss Sassaflash. I was supposed to say ‘Seen what,’ weren’t I?”

“...Humor me my exposition, please, Mr. Mule.”

“I does, Miss Sassaflash, I does. Just so long as you knows you’s doing it. ‘Seen what?’”

She hesitated, but after a smile and an encouraging nod, she continued, “Well, as I said, vast distances are hardly rare. Rather than teleporting directly from one part of the world to another and hoping that it was far enough, all we really needed to do was jaunt far out into deep space, and then teleport back to our destination. There is, as the name would suggest, plenty of space in space. Exposure to hard vacuum is not, of course, particularly healthy, but if it’s brief enough—and the fact that this balloon has returned unpopped from just such a voyage strongly suggests that it will be—we should be perfectly safe.” Taking care not to scuff the inscriptions on the floor, she lifted the little balloon from its resting place and tossed it into a shadowed corner of the room, beyond the reach of the flickering torchlight. Looking up, her pale mane shining in the warm glow, she said, “I suppose there’s no way I can talk you out of coming.”

The Mule shook his old head. “I’m a-going to see this through to the end, Miss Sassaflash. I’m coming alongside.”

“Very well.” After making a few more modifications to the chalk lines arcing across the stone flags, Sassaflash slung a saddlebag on to her back and trotted over to the corner where her double—herself, one day younger—lay drugged and unconscious on the floor. With some effort, she hoisted her own limp body up on to her shoulders, and trudged over to the center of the spell circle. At the Dark Lord’s gesture the Mule wheeled his way over to her side.

Their eyes met. Sassaflash raised a questioning eyebrow, and when the Mule nodded she gave a grim smile. “Very well, then.” Clearing her throat, she barked a short, guttural command, and around them the world dissolved.

Far to the north, a dry wind whistled through the bleak Hippoborean sky, carrying clouds of powder-dry ice dust over the rocky expanse of the glacial outwash plain far below. Here and there among the rounded pebbles of the sandur small blue-white pockets of snow had accumulated, protected from the low summer Sun, but for the most part the immense sandur was bare and gray, a waste of dust and emptiness bounded by the horizon and the distant, gleaming line of the northern glaciers. Only one feature interrupted the flat sweep of the wash: a heavy black door in its very center, framed by glittering, sharp-edged crystals.

Space stretched, ruptured, and was whole again, and with a rush of air and a crack like a tiny thunderbolt two tiny figures stumbled into existence not far from the brutish door, one bearing upon her back the limp body of her exact doppelgänger. The Mule, propped up by his wheelcart, managed to stay upright, but Sassaflash almost dropped her burden as she slumped forward, choking in shock. Lifting a hoof to his throat, the Mule wheezed, “Feels—feels like somepony done bucked me in the lungs. You alright, Miss Sassaflash?”

At first Sassaflash made no answer, but after a few strangled gasps she managed, “I am adequate, thank you, Mr. Mule. Yourself?”

“I reckon. That sure is one way to wake a body up. But what was that?”

“That, apparently,” she responded, “is what it feels like to have the air drained from one’s lungs and then have it all slam back in again at about a hundred yards per second. Unpleasant.” She drew a ragged breath. “But we seem to be unharmed, which is all that matters.” Turning, she looked at the jagged gate nearby, dusky and sinister amid the desolation. “Our task awaits.”

The Mule followed her gaze. “You said this here Solemn Gate—”

“Somber Gate.”

“Right, that. You said it was cursed. What kind o’ curse, exactly…?”

The pegasus gave a short, humorless laugh. “Where shall I begin? Very little is known about the empire that once dominated these lands, or of the ponies who inhabited it. Even less is known of the cataclysm that sealed their fate. The traditional tale is that a powerful warlock-king took hold of the empire, feeding on the magic of its denizens and enslaving them for his own purposes. He hunted out and devoured magic wherever it could be found. He might have been attempting to turn himself into a God—like the monster Tirek, in classical mythology.” She shook her head. “Of course, he was doomed to fail; hoarding that much magic calls down the wrath of Yog-Sothoth, and buries the presumptive God-to-be under an avalanche of bad luck. What happened, exactly, nopony knows. There are rumors that Celestia and Luna were involved in the disappearance of the warlock-king and his empire, but they’re only rumors.”

The Dark Lord shivered as the wind across the waste picked up, cutting cold against her flanks. Shifting her unconscious self into a more comfortable position on her shoulders, she trudged towards the tall doorway, gesturing for the Mule to follow. The pegasus said nothing more until they were standing in the very shadow of the Somber Gate and she had laid her own past self upon the rocks in front of it. Then, looking up at the mass of crystal and stone looming above them, she said, “But there was one thing that survived the disappearance of this forgotten empire: the Somber Gate. Its original purpose, and why it alone survived, are both mysteries. It was a torture device of some kind, perhaps. There must be more to it than that, but I can’t imagine what.” She propped her past self’s head up on a hefty chunk of rounded granite, and arranged her so that she was facing directly towards the gate. “Stand back, Mr. Mule, and whatever you do, do not look into the doorway when I open it.”

Stone grated against stone as the Mule wheeled back. “But what’s it going to do to her—to you?”

“That,” said Sassaflash, “is what we are about to find out.” Hooking her hoof into the heavy metal band hanging from the front of the door, she gave it a sharp tug and pulled it wide. The Mule raised his forehoof to his face, blocking out his view of the open portal but allowing him to see Sassaflash standing beside it. Likewise averting her eyes, the Dark Lord looked down at her past self, lying unconscious on the ground with her head facing the door, and spoke a single word.

“Zhro!”

The prone pony’s eyes flickered open, already vacant and filmed with green light, and her face slipped into a strange expression—half pain, half puzzlement. A muscle twitched in her neck, and her ears swiveled back against her head, but other than that, she made no movement. Sassaflash knelt beside her and peered into her eyes, then straightened and edged noiselessly away from her mesmerized self, gesturing for the Mule to follow. When they were perhaps thirty paces away, she whispered, “There. That should be far enough. We should speak softly, though; I do not know how fragile the enchantment is, and it must not be broken.”

The Mule was still looking back at Sassaflash where she lay in front of the gate, staring straight ahead through the empty arch. It was hard to tell at this distance, but occasionally her muscles seemed to spasm under her coat, and he thought he could see something very like agony beginning to creep into her eyes. Turning back to the one-day-older Sassaflash standing before him, he murmured, “I ain’t sure I like this, Miss Sassaflash. What’s it doing to you?”

The Dark Lord raised a hoof to shield the gate from her sight, and looked back at herself. “Torturing me. The stories say that anypony who looks through that gate is forced to face their worst fears, hallucinating a nightmare-scape in which everything that they have ever loved or cherished is torn apart before their eyes. Unless disturbed, they remain ensnared in that state until they die—usually of thirst or exposure, though there are reports of ponies who suffered heart attacks or who simply stopped breathing. I suspect those particular cases were ponies who chose to take their own lives.” The Mule’s eyes widened, and he started to trot over to where the past Sassaflash lay bespelled, but Sassaflash laid a gentle hoof on his shoulder and gave a wan smile. “You can’t save me, Mr. Mule. I have to suffer this. It’s me or the world.”

In front of the gate, the enchanted pegasus drew a long, ragged breath. Her wings were shivering at her sides, and the hairs on her face were wet with tears. The Mule gritted his teeth. “I ain’t a-going to stand by while—”

“Mr. Mule, listen. A day ago, I destroyed Equestria. I saw the shattered ruins of mountains lying dead across a lifeless waste, and walked through a world that had been so twisted and mutilated that space itself had been torn to pieces. Nopony survived. Everypony died. That is what I’m seeing now—what the Somber Gate is forcing me to see. By showing this to my past self, we ensure that it never really happened—that the explanation of my experiences is not an actual apocalypse, but a mere hallucination. It’s a small enough price to pay.” Sassaflash‘s past self gave a piteous whimper, and the Dark Lord gestured towards her. “Listen! Do you want this to have been real?”

The Mule started to protest, but he was interrupted—not by the mare at his side, but by the pony slumped in front of the gate. Throwing her head back, her bewitched eyes frantic with loss, the pegasus screamed, “Mule!” The old creature started back in surprise, while beside him Sassaflash bowed her head. “Parchment! Sweetie Belle! Angel!”

“You see?” said Sassaflash.

The Mule said nothing.

The low autumn Sun had slid further along the horizon, dipping slowly towards night, and the shadows across the rocky sandur were long and cold. The Mule sat alone on a small rise, far enough away from the Somber Gate that he could no longer hear Sassaflash‘s occasional broken outbursts, but near enough that he could just make out her present and past selves, one lying in front of the portal and the other sitting a bit off to the side, watching herself as she wandered through nightmares of death and destruction. In the end, seeing her suffering had been too much for him, and he had excused himself to this distant perch while the Dark Lord remained by her own side—to satisfy herself, she had said, that the hallucination was covering the same ground as her memories.

Despite his best efforts to stay awake, he was just beginning to drowse when he heard the sound of hooves scraping on the pebbles nearby, and scrambling upright saw the Dark Lord Sassaflash approaching, her wings clutched tightly to her flanks against the cold and her ears drooping wearily. Stepping forward, the Mule asked, “It ain’t over, is it?

“No,” Sassaflash shook her head, “It isn’t. But I wanted to check on you. Your injuries, the cold…” She gestured vaguely with an outstretched wing.

“I’m fine.”

“Good.” The pegasus nodded. “Good.” She lowered herself on to the ground, and looked back over her shoulder at the distant spot of turquoise blue-green that was her past self. “I was concerned that it would fail, but fortunately my worries appear to have been groundless. It would seem the reports of the Somber Gate’s effects were not entirely accurate.”

“Sure looked like you was having a nightmare to me,” observed the Mule. The Dark Lord nodded.

“Indeed. The confusion in the tales is very understandable. From what I had heard, though, I hoped that its effects would be more subtle, and now I am quite certain that they are. The Somber Gate does not force a pony to face their worst nightmares; rather, I think, it does something even worse. It unmakes them. It takes everything that they value about themselves, every element from which they have constructed their identity, and razes it to the ground. The young mare in love is told that her love is a sham, the earnest student is told that her beloved mentor despises her...”

“And a pony who reckons she’s got what it takes to be boss o’ the world gets told that that just ain’t so.”

“Rem acu tetigisti.” Sassaflash gave a grim chuckle. “Do you know, Mr. Mule, I think the evil warlock-king of ancient Hippoborea may have been, in his heart of hearts, something of an idealist? It seems not to have occurred to him that for some ponies, the extermination of their ego might actually be a good thing.”

The Mule considered this for some moments. Then, nodding his head in the direction of the Gate, he asked, “Where is you at now?”

“In my hallucination? My despair is past; when I left to check on you, I was just preparing to summon Starswirl the Bearded. If all goes well, with his help I will be traveling back in time soon, and the loop will be closed.” Lifting herself to her hooves, she continued, “In fact, I had better be returning. Even at this late stage, it is possible that some divergence might creep in, and I need to know if one does.”

“Hold up,” said the Mule. “I’m coming.”

They trotted along in silence for some moments, shivering in the twilit chill and wading through shadows. At length the Mule asked, “Miss Sassaflash? You said your other self was fixing to summon up Starswirl to send you back in time, right?”

“That had not been my original purpose in reviving him, but that was the end result, yes.”

The Mule’s long ears twitched back in puzzlement. “That don’t make no sense, though. If you was—is—dreaming, and he was just a dream, he couldn’t’a sent you back in time.”

Sassaflash gave him a sharp look. “No? Just because he existed only within my mind? I summoned him with Aklo, Mr. Mule, and Aklo works regardless of whether it is scribed into glyphs and symbols upon a stone floor, or merely held within the mind. I performed the rituals needed to drag Starswirl back from beyond the grave, and I performed them correctly. Little details like which reality, precisely, I performed those rituals within are utterly inconsequential. The Starswirl that I revived was truly Starswirl, with all his own faculties intact; his existence just happened to be hosted in the neurons within my skull, rather than in the arrangement of atoms in the cosmos without.” Drawing to a halt, she raised a warning hoof. “But hush. We are drawing within earshot. We cannot allow ourselves to stumble now, so close to success.”

Not far away, her past self still lay prone in front of the Somber Gate, staring with empty eyes into the gaping arch before her. Sassaflash and the Mule positioned themselves off to one side, sitting so that the open door blocked their view of the gateway itself. At odd intervals the mesmerized pony would mutter a disjointed response to some unspoken question or statement, carrying on a dream conversation that existed only within her own head:

“Can’t you do something? Can’t you save them from me?”

“Then I’m on my own.”

“What do I—are you offering to help me? Half a minute ago you had me pinned to a wall!”

And, at last, “Take me back in time.”

Sassaflash leaned forward, her wings tense, and a shiver ran up the Mule’s spine. This was it; the last great magic. Space and time, undone and defied by Sassaflash‘s will and Starswirl’s lore. He wondered what it would look like; a shattering of space, like what he had seen when the Hounds of Tindalos had forced their way into the universe? An echoing eddy of moments, with Sassaflash‘s past self flickering back and forth through time before vanishing from the present? Something else entirely, unimaginable and strange? A minute passed...two minutes...five minutes…

Beside the Mule, Sassaflash gave a small start of surprise. Rising to her hooves and motioning for him to stay where he was, she stepped closer to her hypnotized doppelgänger. For some moments she stood there, staring down at herself. At last she raised her head and looked back at her friend, her face a strange blank.

“It’s over.”

The Mule blinked. “What?”

Raising a hoof, the necromancer pushed against the Somber Gate’s heavy door, swinging it gratingly across the pebbles of the wash back into its frame with a solid, final thunk. Her past self made no motion, continuing to stare ahead with empty eyes. “What I said. It’s over. Starswirl has sent me back to one day ago, and the course of time is inevitable again. No more choices.”

“But you ain’t gone nowheres. You’s still a-sitting there just like—”

A rough push from Sassaflash‘s hoof, and her past self slumped to one side, her head lolling against the cold stones and amber eyes still staring lifelessly ahead. The Mule started back with a gasp, and the necromancer nodded.

“Yes, I’m dead. My body, at least. Did I not tell you that when I traveled back in time I had to construct a new body? Only my mind was sent back—and this is what happened to what was left behind. It’s just an empty shell now, and the apocalypse I witnessed is nothing more than a dream.” She gave a sad little chuckle. “Funny, I thought I would feel a greater sense of accomplishment. Some...some sense of having made things better. Then again, Discord is still loose, and we have no way of knowing how successful the Princesses will be in bringing it to heel. They may fail. Really, all I have definitely succeeded in doing is destroying the world slightly less than was originally the case.”

“Don’t you talk like that.” The Mule stepped forward and laid a hoof on Sassaflash‘s shoulder. “Don’t you say that. They’ll beat it, you’ll see.”

“Will they?” asked Sassaflash, raising an eyebrow. “Shall we return to Ponyville, then, and find out what exactly I have wrought? There’s nothing to keep us here, and I am exhausted—and I have no doubt you are equally fatigued.”

The Mule shivered, and looked to the west, where the sinking Sun still glowered on the horizon, painting the craggy landscape by turns with splashes of fire and deep, blue-black shadows. “Alright. But I reckon they’s still one thing left to do afore we go.”

A pillar of fire rose above the rocky sandur, trailing high up into the night sky. Sparks drifted against the stars, blown here and there by the wild wind of the wastes, and tiny crystals of ice hissed and popped among the heaped stones surrounding the flames, steaming away into vapor. A dark figure lay curled within the blaze, its limbs folded tightly and its head tucked against its side like a resting bird.

Not far from the pyre, the Mule and Sassaflash sat in silence, watching as the Dark Lord’s body burned. At length the Mule, turning to his companion, said, “Y’know, when I said we shouldn’t ought to leave you a-lying out here like this, I figured we could just get some rock stones and pile ‘em over top of you, that’s all. I didn’t think—”

“I happen to like fire,” responded Sassaflash, “and it is my funeral. In any case, it’s much easier this way.”

The Mule nodded. “Fair enough.”

For some minutes the two sat in silence, watching the past slowly burn and crumble into ash. At length the Mule, who had been staring into the flames with a puzzled expression on his long face, spoke up again. “Miss Sassaflash?”

“Yes?”

“They’s one thing I can’t quite square. Everything you seen—everypony dying, Equestria getting blowed up to smithereens, the Princesses getting wore out and losing their magic—that was all just a dream, right?”

“Yes,” said Sassaflash, her voice harsh, “and we worked very hard to make sure of that.”

The Mule’s look of puzzlement deepened. “That don’t make no sense, though. I mean, we brung you here to make you dream that the world had ended, but we wouldn’t’a done that if’n you hadn’t had the dream in the first place, and you wouldn’t’a dreamed it if’n we hadn’t brung you here, and—” He stopped at the touch of Sassaflash‘s hoof on his shoulder. She shook her head.

“Don’t try to make sense of it, Mr. Mule. It is easily enough explained—causality is only ever approximately true, free will is an outright lie, and we are all puppets of chance—but to actually accept that explanation is not really possible. Not for a sane pony, at any rate. Be still, and be grateful that, just this once, the world was not as cold and cruel as it could have been.”

The Mule cast a glance up at the glittering stars overhead, and murmured, “It’s still awful cold sometimes, though, Miss Sassaflash.”

She nodded. “That it is, Mr. Mule, that it is.”

“Seems to me, though,” said the old creature, “that when it’s cold, the thing to do is find someplace warm or start a fire. Do something about it.”

“Do you think so? Hah!” Gesturing towards the pyre on which her body was burning, Sassaflash said, “I think I’ve set enough fires in my life now, don’t you? The last really large one I kindled nearly consumed all of Equestria. No, I believe I will stay out in the cold from now on, and leave tending the hearth to those with humbler ambitions than my own. It’s safest that way.”

The Mule shook his head. “Maybe so—but I don’t reckon you’ll be able to help yourself. You’re a firebug, and that’s the truth. You ain’t a-going to just go back home and sit on your hooves all by your lonesome; you’ll do something.”

With a frown, the necromancer responded, “You think I haven’t learned my lesson, then.”

“I didn’t say that. Might could be, though, that you ain’t clear on what kind o’ lesson you learned.” He turned to look at his companion. “The mistake you made the first time wasn’t wanting to fix things; that’s fine. It was thinking the world was broke, when it was really something inside you that’d gone wrong. You’ve got a lot o’ power, Miss Sassaflash, and you could do a powerful lot o’ good with it—you really could. You just got to make sure that you use it the right way.” He shrugged. “I don’t reckon you’ll make that same mistake twice.”

“Well.” The fire was dying down now, its hungry tongues rising low above the sooty remnants of the Dark Lord’s body and licking against her blackened bones. Flickering firelight danced in Sassaflash‘s eyes as she gazed at the flames, staring into her own empty eye sockets. “Perhaps not.” Rising to her hooves, she trotted over to the smoldering pyre, speaking over her shoulder. “Perhaps I will not be given a chance. Do you think Celestia, when she finds out what I’ve done, will be content to leave me to my own devices? Even if she is inclined to be merciful, once the blame has been pinned on me I will be exposed to other powers, and they will have none of her scruples. I see it coming. Tartarus-wind...titan blur...black wings...Yog-Sothoth save me! The three-lobed burning eye…” She stood there for a long moment, looking down at her remains in silence. A charred feather, blown free from one of her burning wings and wedged into a crevice in the rock nearby, caught her attention, and for a moment she extended her hoof to it, as though to pull it free.

Then another thought seemed to occur to her. Abandoning the feather, she raised a wing to shield herself from the heat, reached out, and knocked her own scorched skull away from the fire, sending it rattling away across the stones. The Mule started. “Miss Sassaflash, what—”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Mule,” she responded, “I have no necromantic purpose in this. It is merely sentiment.” After waiting a few moments to let it cool, she touched her pastern to it once or twice to assure herself that it was safe to touch and then tucked it under her wing and trotted back to her friend’s side.

The Mule gave the skull a dubious glance. “Sentiment, you say.”

“Yes, Mr. Mule, sentiment. A memento, if you will. I need to remember this, you know. What I did. What I was.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “That’s fine, I guess. Don’t you forget that that ain’t who you is now, though.”

“I hope not, Mr. Mule. I hope not.”

It took Sassaflash little time to prepare the spell that would take them back to Ponyville—she had, as she told the Mule, had plenty of practice at it lately—and many hundreds of leagues to the south, the silence of the necromancer’s lair was soon broken by a sharp crack as air rushed away to make room for the arrival of the two travelers. After recovering from the shock of teleportation (“Miss Sassaflash, I don’t mean to complain, but ain’t there someplace out in space we could teleport to that has air?” “By all means, Mr. Mule. Which would you prefer? Amalthaea’s carbonic acid atmosphere, perhaps, hot enough to flash-boil you from the inside out? Or perhaps you’d find the bracing chill of Auðumbla’s breezes, blowing off a sea of liquid azote, to be more to your liking? Then of course there are the crushing depths of George, where the pressure is so great that the line between air and metal is blurred, or Sleipnir’s clouds of muriatic acid, or—” “Okay, okay, I get it”) and depositing Sassaflash‘s skull in her cauldron to be boiled clean of residue later on, they made their way up out of the dungeon into the bookish labyrinth of the necromancer’s home. Sassaflash trotted over to the front door, laid her hoof on the latch, and turned to look back at her friend. “I must warn you, Mr. Mule, that I have no idea what we will see once we step outside. Discord was making its presence known even when we departed, and that was many hours ago now. My hope, of course, was that in its hubris it would let its guard down sufficiently to allow the Princesses or the bearers of the Elements of Harmony to overcome it, but...well. We shall see. The continued survival of this house, at least, shows that the ultimate destruction I feared has been averted, so there is some comfort in that. Still, be prepared for anything.” She pressed down on the latch, and swung the door wide.

A placid, starlit Ponyville night greeted them. Snug little cottages slumbered by the cobbled byway, deep in restful shadow, and a little ways down the street a flickering lantern cast its warm glow on moss-rimmed paving stones. A few clouds drifted overhead, their edges silvered by the full moon, and between them the stars shone in still, silent beauty. Everything smelled fresh and clean, like the air after a summer shower.

Sassaflash stumbled down from her stoop to the street, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide. Craning her neck back and staring up at the stars, she executed a bewildered little half-turn in the middle of the street, then looked back at the Mule, who was still standing in the doorway and regarding their peaceful surroundings with a mild, approving eye. He nodded. “Looks like it worked.”

“But I don’t—Discord was free; it was beginning to warp the world even when we left. One cannot just sweep a God under the rug like that!” She hesitated, and then hurried off down the alley towards Mane Street, the Mule ambling along behind and trying without much success to stifle his yawns.

Despite the lateness, there were a few ponies still on the streets, and Sassaflash wasted no time in accosting the nearest one. The Mule wasn’t near enough to overhear their conversation, but brief as it was it seemed to satisfy Sassaflash, for after nodding a hurried thanks she darted off down the street towards town hall, gesturing for the Mule to follow. It was not far away, and after ten minutes at a brisk trot the necromancer came to the edge of the hall’s long, spired shadow, her pace slowing as she peered into the gloom at a long, low thing sprawled in front of the building. The Mule drew up alongside her and, following her gaze, murmured, “What is that?”

Sassaflash made no answer. Stepping forward into the building’s moon-cast shadow, she made her way to the prone shape and raised her left hoof into the air, holding it high over her head. There was a brief, brilliant burst of flame, stabbing up from the necromancer’s hoof into the sky, and for a moment the thing in front of her was lit with fiery orange light. Its granite surface gleamed, and the Mule had a glimpse of mismatched wings, sharp claws, a misshapen head that was part pony, part dragon, and part nightmare, and a twisting, sinuous body like a monstrous snake. The light faded. Blinking dazzled eyes in the darkness, the Mule repeated, “What is that?”

Hooves thumped on the trampled sod in front of the hall, and Sassaflash emerged from the shadows, a dazed look on her face. She looked up at her friend. “It’s Discord. Turned to stone. It worked. It really—I can’t believe it worked! They really did it! Hah!”

The Mule smiled. “Didn’t I say so? Princess Celestia ain’t ruled these thousands o’ years just to be beat now.”

“Ah, no.” With an awkward flutter of her wings, Sassaflash said, “It wasn’t Princess Celestia, according to the pony I talked to back on Mane Street. It was, um, the Bearers of the Elements of Harmony.” She directed a sharp look at her companion. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

“Nope.”

“I thought you said something.”

“I didn’t.”

“Hm. Yes. Well. Don’t.” The Mule returned her stare with a look of placid innocence, and at length, after a valiant but doomed effort to maintain her stern glare, the necromancer gave in and laughed, “Oh, very well. I was a fool, and I completely underestimated them—fortunately for us all!” Glancing back over her shoulder at the petrified God lying in the dirt, she continued, “I am tempted to take a chisel and sledgehammer to that thing—its continued existence worries me—but others have clearly chosen otherwise, and perhaps they had a reason for that. Perhaps I should acquaint myself with all the facts before acting. There is a first time for everything, is there not, Mr. Mule?”

The old creature smiled. “I reckon so, Miss Sassaflash.” He gave a tremendous yawn, and inquired, “They ain’t nothing more we need to do now, is they? Only I could do with some shut-eye.”

“No,” answered Sassaflash, shaking her head, “Our labors are at an end. The world is saved. Evil has been vanquished, and good has triumphed.” She raised a forehoof, and made a flourishing gesture in the air. “The End!”

“Good,” said the Mule. “I’m tired.”

The following days and weeks passed serenely enough, with the Mule staying at Sassaflash‘s cottage, at her insistence, until his leg healed. In the Dreamlands the Mule told his wife what had happened, and though she grudgingly admitted that she might have misjudged the necromancer, she had no opportunity to say so to the mare herself, for Sassaflash did not venture down the Seven Hundred Steps of Deeper Slumber the first night or any night after that—or if she did, she gave the mules’ cabin a wide berth. There was an undercurrent of uneasy tension to her every action. She seemed at loose ends, and when she wasn’t working on translations of tracts and monographs (which, the Mule learned with some surprise, was her main source of income. Most ponies had little use for forgotten knowledge of the elder world, but there were many scholars and writers from lands beyond Equestria who wished for their works to see a wider audience, and Sassaflash was more than willing to translate them into Equestrian—for a fee, of course) she spent her time flipping listlessly through ancient tomes or fidgeting around with various minor spells and rituals, apparently to no particular purpose. It was as though she were waiting for something to happen.

One evening after dinner when they were both in the kitchen, the Mule washing dishes and the pegasus hunched over in a corner reading a surprisingly modern book entitled Recurrent Mythic Archetypes in Palaeopony Cultures: A Hippological Interpretation of the Elkdown Shards and the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Mule hazarded that if it was Celestia finding out what had happened that had got her so worried, she should probably just go talk to the Princess herself and get it over with. Sassaflash shrugged off the suggestion with a blank stare and a distracted laugh. “What, and waste perfectly good bits on a train ticket?” the necromancer said. “No, let her come to me, accompanied by her golden guard and radiant with fury and might! The least I can do, after unleashing Discord on the good fools of Ponyville, is give them a spectacle before I go.”

“Supposing she don’t come?” asked the Mule, sliding a dish into the drying rack he had insisted that Sassaflash buy shortly after their return from Hippoborea. “Might could be she don’t know where to start looking. I ain’t said nothing, and I know Miss Sweetie Belle ain’t a-going to, neither.”

One of the necromancer’s ears twitched askance, and she shut the heavy book in front of her with a soft whud. “You think not? I made her face the Hounds of Tindalos and Discord itself, Mr. Mule, and she has not forgiven me for it—and nor should she.”

The Mule shook his head. “No, I mean I talked to her. When I gone to the market yesterday, she was there with her friends, so o’ course I said ‘howdy-do.’ She asked if you was alright, and I said you was, mostly. Then I asked her if’n she’d be coming back, and she said no, never. ‘It’s her fault I met Discord, and her fault he done all them things to my Mom and Dad and Rarity and everypony else. I know she done her best to fix her mistakes,’ she says to me, ‘but she wasn’t supposed to make mistakes in the first place. She was supposed to be better than that. She made me think she was better than that. I know she tried, and I ain’t a-going to tell nopony abouten her, but I ain’t a-going back, neither. I can’t.’”

Sassaflash‘s ears drooped, her head bent as she stared past the book in front of her into some abyss that only she could see. “She trusted me completely, as only a foal can trust, and I betrayed that confidence. Innocence lost...” She sighed. “Miserable fool that I was. I wish she could know how sorry I am.”

“Miss Sassaflash, you—”

“Goodnight, Mr. Mule,’ said the necromancer, rising to her hooves. “I am going to bed.”

Several days later, one of the Mule’s follow-up visits to the hospital yielded the good news that his bones had grown together enough for the usual bone-mending magics to be applied. After an hour spent under the surgeon’s horn, he bade a glad farewell to his wheelcart and cast, and ambled out of the hospital that evening with a light heart. It would be good to be able to do work again; he didn’t like being a burden, and his presence could only have served as a reminder to Sassaflash of her failures. It would do her good to see him well again, to see that wounds could heal. Besides, he suspected that some of Sassaflash’s anxiety was strain from having to share her space. She was not, he reflected, the most social of ponies.

It was dusk when he turned on to Haybale Lane, and the cottages lining the little back street were sunk in deep blue shadow—all but for a splash of vivid gold and white across their very tops, where the low Sun shone in over the rooftops. A little speck of black whirred across the painted sky, bobbing and weaving as it hunted for insects on the wing—a bat, probably, out seeking an early meal. The evening chill bit at the tips of the Mule’s long ears, and with a shiver he hurried up the steps of number 108 and rapped at the door.

After the usual muffled shuffling and the sounds of bolts being shot and locks being unlocked, Sassaflash peered out of the cracked door. Her eyes widened at the sight of the Mule. “Your cast! Your cart! You’re well, then?”

“Fit as a fiddle,” nodded the Mule, with a broad smile. “Them doctor ponies knows what they’s doing.”

“Excellent news!” The necromancer stepped back and gestured with an outspread wing for the Mule to enter, shoving a few small stacks of books out of the way with her hind leg. “Most excellent. I had not anticipated it would be this soon, but all the better. This is a great relief.”

“Yep. I’m a-going to head out and look for work first thing tomorrow; it’s a mite late in the season, but I reckon they’s still some harvesting that needs doing. I’ll be outen your mane soon enough.”

Sassaflash gave him an odd, sidelong look. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I will be out of yours.”

“Begging your pardon?” The heatless cathode lamp that normally lit the book-filled room was off, and but for the open door it would have been completely dark. As it was, the shadows draped from the ancient oaken bookshelves and precarious stacks of tomes were too thick for the Mule to make out Sassaflash‘s expression. There had been a strange note to her voice when she had spoken; not unnerving, exactly, but strange. It spoke of hidden things.

“Close the door, if you will, Mr. Mule,” said the Dark Lord, and the Mule heard her trot further back in amongst the stacks. A moment later an electric hum filled the air, and the colorless, bleached light of the cathode lamp flickered to life. “I have a request to make of you, now that you are quite well. It is not critical, but it would make things easier.”

The Mule’s long ears flopped back in puzzlement, and he pulled the door to. “Well, alrighty. Only I ain’t sure I follow. What do you mean, you’ll be getting outen my mane?”

Sassaflash settled herself behind the little desk on which the lamp rested, and for a moment the Mule was reminded of their first meeting, when she had sat just so, with Sweetie Belle at her side and a stern, assured look on her face. She was still stern, but there was clarity and sadness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Folding her hooves in front of her, the pegasus said, “It will not have escaped your notice that I have been...uncomfortable these past few weeks. I made horrible mistakes, and other ponies paid a terrible price. That our labors barely averted a worse catastrophe does not excuse me. I can’t bear to just carry on with my life, free of repercussions, as if I’d done nothing at all.”

“Miss Sassaflash, there ain’t no sense in beating yourself up. That ain’t a-going to fix nothing.”

The necromancer nodded. “Indeed not! But while I may not be able to undo my crimes, and while self-flagellation may be pointless, I can at least make some measure of atonement.” Her eyes flashed in the dark. “As you said in Hippoborea, I possess great power—and my skillset is nearly unique. There are things I can do that nopony else, not even the Princesses, could hope to accomplish. I have a singular talent, for example, for deicide.

“For all the wrong I did, there was one deed that I can be proud of. Tsathoggua is dead. It will never erupt from Voormithadreth, wild and ravening with the hunger of a God, to lay waste to the world. But Tsathoggua was not the only Great Old One biding its time until the stars are right. There are others, slumbering in deep and hidden places—and I mean to hunt them down.”

Her tone was even and calm, with none of the bombast or frantic ferocity that used to mark her more megalomaniacal moments, but the grim determination in her voice was, in its way, more unnerving than any wild outburst would have been. Feeling as though his bones had turned to ice, the Mule stammered, “They’ll kill you! Or worse! You barely got out of Voormi’s Address—Voormithadreth—alive, and you was skeert crazy when I found you down there. I had to feed you worrywort just to keep them things that wasn’t shoggoths off’n our tails.”

Sassaflash gave an odd, twisted smile. “And yet we are alive, and Tsathoggua is dead. Do you appreciate the significance of that? Tsathoggua was a God. We should have had no chance; not a small chance, but none at all. If I pit myself against another Great Old One, I will probably die, it is true—but I might not. That ‘might’ is one of the most miraculous, improbable, precious things in the world.” Placing her hooves on the desk, she rose upright, her wings half-open at her back. “It is not a question of what I can do, but what I must do. Do you think all the strength in the world will be able to prevail against, say, the Father of Serpents or the Twin Blasphemies when they rise? I, a mote of dust cloaked in shadows, unknown to both Gods and mortals, may be the only one who can strike them down. I have to try.”

With a dull thump, the Mule sat back on his haunches, his head swimming. “I could stop you. I could tell Princess Celestia what you done.”

“And bring me to the attention of the Outer Gods? You’d only guarantee my destruction. I am certain they are seeking me now; Tsathoggua’s death cannot have failed to draw their notice. But if I blot out their eyes, perhaps they will never find me. Even their emissary might find it difficult to maneuver on this world, without its priest to guide it.” She waited for a response, but as the Mule seemed to be having trouble finding his tongue, at length she continued, “Well. Don’t let it disturb you, Mr. Mule. It need not concern you. I only mention this now because I could not leave while you were still recovering; I had to make sure you were well, and could look after yourself. Now that your injuries have healed, though, I do have a request to make of you. There is a possibility, however slim, that I will be able to return home to Ponyville after this little quest of mine, and in the interim I’ll need somepony to look after my house. Now, of course Angel and Crowded Parchment could manage that, but they both have their...peculiarities, and as you do not currently have any lodgings, I thought it might suit both our purposes well if you stayed here in my absence. I would, of course, leave you detailed instructions, as well as remove the more dangerous articles I possess. What say you?”

The Mule digested this for some moments. At length he raised his head and said, “You want me to house-sit while you go off God-killing.”

Sassaflash blinked. “A blunt way to put it, but yes, that is the gist of it.”

“No. I ain’t a-going to do it.”

“Ah.” The necromancer’s face fell. “...Very well. I confess to being a bit disappointed, but no matter. Thank you for hearing my request, in any case.” She squeezed her way out from behind the desk, sending a few stray leaves of close-written paper fluttering to the floor. “I’ll leave a note for Parchment, and be off tonight; as it happens, I’ve been packed for a week and a half now.” She was just trotting past the Mule, bound for the spiral staircase that led down into her dungeon lair, when a thought occurred to her and, pausing, she turned and said, “If I may ask, why did you refuse?”

With a note of mild surprise in his voice, as if what he was saying was the most natural and obvious thing in the world, the Mule responded, “Because I’m coming with you, o’ course.”

“What?” The Dark Lord froze, staring blankly at the old creature. He gave a shrug.

“What I said. I’m coming with you. If I can’t convince you not to go, they ain’t no way I’m a-going to let you go up against all them monsters and beastes and Gods all by your lonesome.”

“No. No! Absolutely not!” Whipping around and sending an umbrella rack filled with ancient scrolls clattering to the floor, Sassaflash stomped over to the stairs and, turning, gestured for the Mule to stay put. “I cannot let you risk your life again for one of my schemes. This is my sin, and my penance; not yours. Besides, your wife would kill me if I ever let anything happen to you.”

“If’n you say so, Miss Sassaflash,” said the Mule, halting at the head of the stairs. “Only I ain’t exactly innocent myself. I helped you all along the way, you know. You couldn’t’a done it without your minion.” He paused. “Have you packed up some food?”

“Of course I packed food,” came the muffled call from below. “It’s in the kitchen; several small haybales and plenty of pemmican. I have done this before, you know.” She emerged from below, a saddlebag slung over her back. “If you’re feeling guilty about aiding and abetting my crimes, by all means...I don’t know, go do community service or something. Pick up litter. Something safe.”

The Mule, who had ambled into the kitchen, poked his head into the study and said, “Maybe I will, maybe I will. You sure this is enough food? It don’t seem like much.” He tilted his head, eyeing the Dark Lord. “What are you looking for?”

“My copy of the Ponypei Scriptures, if you must know. I had it out to study a week or two ago, and I seem to have neglected to put it back in place. And if you think there’s not enough food, just pack more. I can’t attend to every detail, Mr. Mule. I expect more initiative from you.”

“Yes, Miss Sassaflash. Sorry, Miss Sassaflash. I reckon that’s what you’re looking for over there, ain’t it? No, higher; inside the ribcage. The other ribcage, I meant, next to the giant eye in a bottle.” The Mule ambled out of the kitchen, travel-sized haybales and packages of pemmican strapped securely to his sides, along with a collection of pots and pans, spirit lamps, and lamp oil. “D’you reckon maybe you should bring along an extra bedroll, just in case the other gets lost or torn up?”

Sassaflash emerged from amid the stacks of books and nodded. “That seems advisable. Just a moment, let me fetch one from the dungeon.”

The Dark Lord disappeared down the spiral stairs, the clack of hooves on wood fading away below. Lowering himself carefully to the floor, his burden swaying slightly at his back, the Mule looked idly about. It was a nice house, he reflected, even if a little unconventionally decorated, and it would have been pleasant to house-sit. He hoped Angel and Crowded Parchment, whoever and whatever he was, would enjoy taking care of—

“Mr. Mule.” Turning, the Mule saw Sassaflash standing at the head of the stairs and glaring at him. He returned the look with a cheerful smile.

“Yes, Miss Sassaflash?”

Raising an eyebrow, she observed, “You appear to have loaded yourself up with supplies. Extra food, too.”

“Yes, Miss Sassaflash. I don’t reckon you could’a carried it all by your lonesome”

“And you just tricked me into getting another bedroll.”

“Suggested, not tricked.”

“You also appear to have packed—is that a sheaf of worrywort? And raskovnik?”

“Might could be you’d see the Elder Sign again, or something like it, and need to forget it in a hurry. Best to be careful, I reckon.”

“I seem to recall saying that you were not coming along on this expedition.”

“You did, at that,” agreed the Mule, amicably. He made no movement to remove the items strapped to his back.

For a long, long moment the two stared at each other, lit by the eerie glow of Sassaflash‘s lantern and by a few rogue fragments of sunlight, reflected off the upper storey windows of the house across the lane. The Mule tilted his head to one side, asking an unspoken question.

Then the Dark Lord Sassaflash laughed—a genuine laugh, happy and colored with a note of relief. Trotting forward, she swung the front door wide, sending a burst of fresh air rushing into the dusty, mouldering house. Yellowed papers fluttered into the air, drifting and flapping like great pallid moths startled from their rest. Turning back to face her friend, she said, “Why not! Why not, in the end? I submit; turn out the light, shutter the house, and follow me. We have a train to catch. You are certain you want to do this?”

“I’m certain, Miss Sassaflash.”

“Then come, Mr. Mule. Let’s go kill Cthulhu!”

Author's Note

Well. So it ends! Hopefully satisfactorily, although it is, oddly enough considering the giant world-devouring monsters featured in this tale, rather a quieter ending than that of my last story. Here's hoping it satisfies!

Lessee, now. Before closing up shop and shuttering the windows, there are some things I rather need to say. First, I want to express my immense gratitude to The Masked Ferret, without whose prompting and editing help this story would have been written far more slowly and imperfectly, and possibly not at all. Similarly, I have to thank my mother, who also offered invaluable editing help, and who continues to baffle me with her pride in the fact that I'm writing MLP fanfics. A mother's love knows no bounds, I suppose. And lastly, of course, I'd like to thank you—all you wonderful readers and commenters, who've been willing to give this tale a chance, and who've encouraged me with your thoughtful critiques, helpful impressions, and gratifying reactions. Thank you, all of you!

So, whither now? I'm still considering tackling a Celestia fic, as I believe I mentioned earlier, but if I do embark on that particular journey it'll be a little while coming; at present, there are a few other writing projects I'd like to focus on, most particularly an attempt to write a faithful interpretation of Lovecraft's Necronomicon (all 800+ pages. Yes, I know I'm insane), and an original science-fantasy tale of my own. Who knows, though? I certainly didn't have any intention of writing fanfiction at all before the season two finale aired, and yet within a day of watching it I'd banged out the first chapter of Mendacity, because dagnabbit, that story needed to be told. Perhaps the same thing will happen again. Season six is coming...

...Oh, right, I almost forgot. For those wondering, the planet George is an astronomy in-joke of sorts. Poor Uranus never really had a chance when it came to getting a nice, dignified name that schoolchildren wouldn't snicker at on the playground, and actually the name it ended up with is arguably better than the alternatives that were suggested at the time, which included Herschel, Neptune George the Third, and Georgium Sidus ("George's Star"). I find the idea of the planet George to be so hilarious that I couldn't help throwing it in.