//------------------------------// // Part II // Story: Book I: Britannia and the Holy Hoof-Grenade // by Hazel Hooves //------------------------------// Part II   Britannia shook as she watched her father rush out into the night, part of her wishing she hadn't told him to leave. But the job she had to do was much more important than how she felt. She grabbed a mouthful of gauze and packed it down on another of the frightful wounds. There was so much blood. The taste of it and the sight of it on her hooves made her stomach turn. She pressed down, trying to stem the flow as she concentrated her magic. Straining, she lifted a bandage and began to wrap it around the striped body, pulling tighter and tighter.          Breathing shallowly, the zebra mumbled in her own language.          “Hu...hush now,” Britannia stammered, her own breathing rapid. “You'll be all right. I...I'm going to fix you right up.” With another concentrated measure of levitation magic she applied some anti-septic spray on the zebras's bleeding flank. The striped equine tensed as the liquid stung and she hissed out a few choice words of Quaghili. Britannia blushed. She didn't really know what those words meant but she could hazard a guess. “You shouldn't say rude words in front of little fillies,” she said, quoting Auntie Hyacinth. Though really, she thought, if there was a time for rude words this certainly felt like it. Poo. Knickers. Bum. Bloody. Bloody blood blood Oh! There was so much blood! She shook the thought away,          “I'm sorry. It will only sting for a bit, okay?” she said and moved onto another wound. The zebra nodded. Britannia bit her lip. “My...my daddy always says you should never let the buggers see you're hurt,” she said, as much to fill the empty space in the one-sided conversation as anything else. The zebra made a tortured rattling whinny that sounded almost like laughter, “Your father is an unusual pony, little one.”          He's the best pony, the little filly thought. There was less of that horrible wailing now but she could still hear the commotion of battle outside the tent. I hope he's safe. She looked over the zebra. She'd first seen them just as pictures in one of her daddy's books when she'd sneaked into his study when Auntie wasn't looking. Seeing them in real life: these ponies that weren't ponies, she had been really nervous. They had looked and talked so strangely, but there was something nice and comforting about them. Something about the way they sounded and smelled just made her feel at home for some reason. Now, seeing those beautiful stripes torn and bloodied and their owner hurt and helpless, it was like a fire was being lit inside her.          “What's your name?” she asked as she rooted through the satchel.          “Zeneela” the zebra gasped. Britannia started on the final cut. They were all in regular intervals, like she'd been raked with terrible claws. “What did this to you Zeneela?” she asked, horrified. “What's out there?” After arranging her thoughts, the zebra spoke, “Beasts of forests, dark and loathsome. My people call them the asanbosam. High above in the trees they wait, until the chance to strike they take. Upon those unwary they will drop, and until you're dead they will not stop.” Suddenly Zeneela gasped, eyes wide with terrified insight, “Oh, how could I forget my fate? You must flee before it's too late!” she tried to clamber to her hooves, agony twisting her face. Britannia tried to hold her down.          “You mustn't move Zeneela!, you'll tear your bandages!” Behind her, Roary's growling intensified, his tail whipping and winglets rustling as he stared at a looming shape beyond the tent canvas. The zebra, drawing from reserves she shouldn't even have, knocked her diminutive carer aside with a butt of her head. Her eyes pleaded through pained tears, “Once a victim the monsters choose, their scent and taste they'll never lose,” she rhymed frantically. “Run away I beg of you, before the demons get you too!”          Britannia stood, rooted to the floor in shock, the zebra's words like ice down her spine. “But...”          A howl suddenly shook the tent and the occupants stared in horror as claws like huge iron sickles shredded through the canvas. Like a storybook monster come to life, a grey ape-like face with eyes like fiery slits leered in at them. Its gaping, fang-toothed maw bellowed in triumph as the asanbosam slashed its way in and lunged straight for them.                  Caught unaware, they would both have certainly been prey to those thirsting teeth. That is, if it wasn't for the mosquito netting. The clinging material checked the creature's trajectory and left it sprawled and scrabbling on the tent floor. As it attempted to rise the manticore gave an impassioned roar and sprung. The asanbosam screeched as Roary, clinging to its face with his claws, plunged his tail wherever he could. The cub's venom wasn't as potent as it would be if he were fully grown but the pain would still be excruciating. Shrieking, the monster stumbled against Quarter Mane's trestle table, knocking its contents to the ground. The firefly lantern smashed, releasing its captive insects and leaving the zebra and the pony blinking in the dark just as another two pairs of glowing red eyes appeared through the rend in the tent.          As the two equines' eyes adjusted to the darkness the new monstrosities lumbered in past their prone companion. Clawed hands swung as their hobbling gait brought them closer. The little filly, her mouth agape, suddenly found herself knocked to one side by a neatly placed hoof. Zeneela stood unsteadily and faced the beasts, “Behind me, little one,” she said, grabbing her quarter-staff in her mouth and awkwardly taking up the fighting stance of a zebra warrior. The first beast, scenting its quarry, bellowed and charged. Zeneela struck, cracking the beast around the jaw with her staff and following through with an uppercut that sent her foe reeling but certainly not out of the fight. The other creature swung at her, trying to slice her with its claws only to be met by a deft parry of the staff and a kick to the solar plexus.          Britannia lay transfixed; why hadn't she screamed for help? Or for her daddy? Or run like the wounded zebra had told her? But she found she just couldn't. Her body refused to obey what her rational brain was screaming at her to do. Instead she watched as the netted asanbosam finally wrenched the furious manticore off and hurled him across the tent. The little furry shape smashed against a support post and tumbled to the floor with a plaintive mewl.          “Roary!” Britannia made to run to him but stumbled back as the asanbosam snarled. Now freed from both pet and net, it began to stalk towards what it perceived to be the easiest target: herself.          She tried to retreat but felt only the stout canvas of the tent wall against her rump. She was trapped. With no escape and nothing to hoof to defend herself she could only stare as the creature approached. Its fangs were bared and its eyes glared viciously. Her thoughts ran cold, Oh, Celestia! I'm going to die! She looked at her companions: Zeneela, kicking and swinging at the relentless monsters while blood-loss and exhaustion took their toll, and Roary, lying as still as when she'd first found him lost and hurt in the forest.          The evil creature loomed above her, the rotting stink of carrion assaulting her nostrils. It paused, saliva beading between its fangs as if savouring the moment, then it raised its arm back. They're all going to die and there's nothing I can do... ...The cold thoughts melted as a familiar fire was rekindled within her: a fire of hope, of desire, of purpose, of love...and of anger...like a fuse was being lit...and something was about to explode... ...1...2...3                  Her eyes shot open, a new gleam at their heart, and she screamed. It was a scream of fear and of desperation and, most of all, of pure, unbridled, rage,          “No!” her horn flared, casting the whole tent in a wash of blue light as she reached out for something, anything. This!          A glimmer of blue caught the corner of the asanbosam's eye as it prepared to strike. It turned to look, only to find all 2,312 pages of the Encyclopaedia of Equestrian Antiquities (plus appendices) shooting, spine-first, at its face. It was difficult to tell, but in the split second the creature had left at its disposal, it might have actually looked somewhat surprised. With a sound like the impact of an artillery pie, the book exploded in a cloud of paper and viscous fluid. The force knocked the creature off its feet and it thudded heavily to the floor at Britannia's hooves. It didn't rise. The little filly panted. Her heart raced and her horn crackled with magical energy. Paper fluttered around her like it was the Running of the Leaves, covering the asanbosam in a white blanket. On the other side of the tent she watched with relief as Roary began to pull himself to his feet, no worse the wear for his ordeal. It took a lot to take down a manticore, even a cub.          Suddenly a cry of equine pain tore her attention away and towards the fight still raging on the other side of the tent. Zeneela had battled valiantly but she was weakened from her injuries and outnumbered. One of the creatures got a lucky strike in, hobbling her and sending her crashing to an exhausted and bloodied heap at their feet. With a cry of triumph they fell upon her, talons rising and falling in wet slashes.          Britannia didn't even think as she charged at the monsters.          “Get away from her!” She leapt. The monsters turned from their killing blows as the red and white filly fell amongst them, hooves bucking anything they could reach with furious kicks. Taken aback, they fell away from their prey and began sizing up this new threat. Britannia, face twisted in righteous fury, straddled the downed Zeneela while her manticore leapt before her with tail arched and teeth bared. As the two asanbosam spread their claws the filly reached out and plucked up the zebra's fallen staff, holding it ready in a magic haze.                   It no longer occurred to her that she couldn't possibly succeed where a seasoned zebra warrior had failed. Such rationale had been drowned in her passion and, now, only instinct seemed to control her actions; a deep, primal instinct rising from blood that once flowed through the veins of blue-painted warriors from the days of her ancestors. No. It wasn't just instinct, it was like she was meant to do this. She was Britannia, daughter of Quarter Mane, and she would see to it these evil creatures wouldn't harm anypony else. The beasts rushed her.         It should have been no contest. She was young, small and fragile. But hidden in her weaknesses there was strength. She was nimble and fast, able to duck and weave from the slashing arms and everywhere she saw a chance she swung and jabbed with the quarter-staff: striking joints and cracking skulls. It was utterly without skill or poise, it was just pure ferocity, like her manticore companion who leaped and clawed and stabbed at anything that came near her. It was like a violent ballet of pony and pet, sting and staff, and mind and muscle.          The asanbosam, once determined and willing to weather any punishment in pursuit of prey even ten times the size of what faced them here, found their resolve and their bodies weakening. Zebras were one thing but this was unicorn magic and it was growing in strength and potency, as if filling from some bottomless well within the little pony. Now, unthinkably to their bestial minds, the hunters had become the prey. The quarter-staff that had been a formidable weapon in Zeneela's mouth and hooves now became a spinning bar of pain in Britannia's magic.          Finally, unable to bear any more, they fled, the manticore chasing them to the edge of the tent and back out the hole they'd come through. Stopping just short he lived up to his name and cried a victorious high-pitched roar after the running figures. Britannia watched, adrenaline running its course as the monsters disappeared back into the forest. She dropped her head in exhausted relief. She'd won! Behind her, the slumped striped figure gave a laboured breath,          “Li...little one?” Britannia turned,          “Zeneela!” With a clatter, the battered quarter-staff fell as her magic dissipated. She dropped by the zebra's side, looking with horror at the torn bandages and fresh wounds.          “You...you are safe?” the zebra gasped. “I...saw you fighting off the beasts. Felt sure, I did, that...that...” the zebra's brow furrowed as if she were searching for the correct rhyme.          “Shh...Zeneela, don't speak, I have to stop this bleeding.” Britannia looked frantically for the first aid kit. The moonlight that shone through the gap in the tent revealed the carnage the monsters had left behind. Bedrolls and travel bags were scattered, maps and equipment littered the floor and, everywhere, there were pages from the damaged book. It was like a bomb site. There was no sign of the bandages. The zebra gave a shuddering sigh and spoke, “I... think... it's too late for that.” Britannia gasped, “No! I'll stop it! Don't give up, Zeneela!” She scrabbled in the detritus around them, looking for anything: a scrap of gauze, a sticking plaster, anything! With nothing else to hoof she started gathering up paper, pushing it in the wounds, levitating piles of it over to her and holding them against the zebra's neck and barrel. Pages of writing, pictures of artefacts, temples, courtyards, ponies in ancient clothes, a familiar golden orb: she used anything and watched helplessly as each one turned dark with the endless flow of blood. Tears welled in her eyes, “No!” she screamed. “Please, Somepony help! Help me! Anypony! Daddy! ***