October 10th, YOH 1409; just after midnight.
Guard duty at night in the heart of a fortress was boring.
Third Year Cadet Guidestar Flight, attending the Equestrian Guards' Military Training Academy at West Hoof, thought this for far from the first time in his military career; indeed, for far from the first time this night. His watch was solitary, and consisted of standing before the thick and locked metal doors of Magazine Number Two, behind which reposed under one-sixth of the fort's total stores of black powder, banefire, shot, shell, wadding and other supplies required for the shooting of artillery-pieces.
Ignoring the issue of the immensely strong fortified mountain that was West Hoof, and the section of soldiers on the walls, and the fact that the Hoof was sixteen leagues upriver from Manehattan and the other forts, such as the South Battery, Fort Barkskin and Fort Green, that guarded entry to the Half Moon River from the Stormy Sea and the Albionic foe -- and of course ignoring the whole rest of the garrison, cadets, instructors and other staff who were sleeping in the barracks of the fort -- Guidestar was the sole defender of the magazine.
Which was to say, he was simply the last line of defense for that chamber, the last of a line of very much stronger ones. He was, in fact, on a very safe sentry. And he knew it, which was one reason he was so very bored.
He leaned on his half-spear -- a short stabbing and slashing weapon, well-designed for fighting in close quarters; and easy enough to manage that even first-year cadets, who ranged in age from 14-19, could be trusted not to poke their fellows with the sharp end, though several reliably succeeded in accomplishing this accidental feat every year. He was clad in light leathers, which might just manage to turn a point that wasn't going to do much more than scratch him anyway: the good thing Guidestar could say about the cadet duty armor was that it was at least comfortable, and easy enough for him to fly in.
Guidestar Flight was a fairly skilled fighter for a teenaged cadet. He had come from a small town in Northern Mane, a rough-and-tumble sort of place where even somepony of good birth had to be prepared to defend himself with his hooves at the drop of a hat. His family, while not one of the great military High Born Clans, nevertheless had a tradition of service. His superior intellect and determination had gotten him nominated to West Hoof at only fourteen, one of the two youngest accepted in the history of the Academy so far, and indeed the youngest allowed in the regulations. He was no stranger to struggling for what he wanted.
He was a good fighter for those reasons, and because he had always been able to keep a level head in a tussle. In combat training so far, he had made a name for himself due to his ability to wait for the exact right moment, ignore the distractions of his opponent's goading or his own bruises, and strike decisively to win. He was adept with crossbow, spear and sword, and a decent wrestler -- for a cadet.
Against a serious enemy raiding party, full-armed for battle, he knew that the best he could hope for was to hold them at bay long enough, while blowing the alarm on his whistle, that he would live to see the Sun rise the next morn. And that will only be, he reminded himself, if I see them first.
He remembered all the adventure stories he had read, in which somepony had silenced a sentry, and reflected on what the grizzled old master-at-arms had told them: that "silenced" generally meant "killed." The master-at-arms had then proceeded to show the students some of the most effective ways to accomplish this end. All the students in Guidestar's class had winced as the old sergeant had demonstrated the moves with a fighting-knife and a straw-stuffed dummy; the straw had been red-dyed for added visual impact. Then, the sergeant had taken a wooden-practice knife and demonstrated the moves upon their own tender hides.
Guidestar judged that he had cquitted himself well in that training; he had only winced internally, keeping up a stoic facade in the best Old-Mandatial tradition. He had picked up the fighting moves quickly and well. And at least -- unlike poor Speedy Chaser -- he hadn't actually thrown up: a disgrace worsened by the fact that Speedy had sufferered this accident not in the physical part of the exercise, but in watching Sergeant Nail Biter slashing the dummy. Speedy had never really lived this down, and had resigned from the Hoof a few weeks later.
The point, as Guidestar reminded himself, was that he was now the sentry to be "silenced." Thus, if there was an enemy raiding party approaching the magazine, his only way of avoiding an ignominious death -- and winning a heroic one, or maybe even a continued life -- was to remain alert. He worked through all sort of fantasies of improbable attackers, amusing himself by imagining their navigational and logistical problems, and working out rough solutions in his head. Guidestar loved mathematics.
By around 1:45 am, this entertainment had begun to pall, and he still had two hours and fifteen minutes left of his watch.
He sighed. It had been a long watch already, longer than usual because there had been absolutely nothing to break it up. The great fort was asleep, save for sentries like himself. Nopony had so much as idly strolled past his post, let alone come to converse with him on any business, nor visit the magazine. He was so bored, he would have welcomed even a critical officer or instructor, or even senior cadet. Even the threat of demerits would have been better than this grinding tedium.
It should be stated here that Guidestar was but seventeen years old, and while he was an exceptionally calm, intelligent and mature seventeen, still he was but seventeen. And, for all the serenity of his external manner, he was energetic and high-hearted and he would not have aspired to the Guard in the first place had he not hoped for excitement: for adventure in an honorable service.
All this should be borne in mind, for it would prove important to the decisive turn his life was about to take: one which would prove ultimately of importance to all Ponykind, though neither her nor his future partner in this destiny would live to see that birth.
Guidestar would remember, however, for the rest of his life just what he was thiking, the moment his life forever changed.
Gosh, this is dreary. I wish something interesting would happen!
A Pony should never think such a thought. The consequences are almost Nature's Law, or possibly Fury, though the Tutelary Spirit involved be unknown. For it be an invariable rule that at least those occasions that the wish is remembered, it is because it was fulfilled.
And causality moves strangely, in any case, at the Cosmic Level.
This time was no exception.
The three cloaked, robed and hooded Ponies who ran around the corner of the corridor, took one look at Guidestar and then bolted back around the corner caught Guidestar by complete surprise.
But they did fit the pattern of why one should not tempt Fate.