Book I: Britannia and the Holy Hoof-Grenade

by Hazel Hooves


Part III

Part III

The frenetic flow of battle had taken the soldiers far from the camp as they'd driven the creatures back. The safety of his daughter had been almost forgotten in the desperate struggle, but when Quarter Mane learned what the creatures were and how they tracked their prey he'd raced back as if Cerberus himself were on his tail. How long had it been since he'd left her? Five minutes? Fifteen? Anything could have happened. Why had he been so careless, so bloody stupid? As unbidden tears of paranoid self-loathing began to stream from frantic eyes, the sight of the dark and torn tent almost stopped him in his tracks. He gasped, like icy claws had gripped his heart and twisted.

"What have I done?" he whispered. Then he heard her desperate cry and simply charged.

Magical light filled the tent as Quarter Mane burst in: his horn incandescent, his sword at the ready and his troops hot on his heels. The profound relief he felt at seeing the little filly alive and well, however, was checked as he saw her tear and blood streaked face pleading from behind the bleeding Zeneela.
        
“Please, you have to save her. She can't die!”
        
He sheathed his sword and nodded to a green-coated unicorn mare with a medical saddlebag slung over her back. They both rushed to the zebra's side. While the medic set to work Britannia rushed into her father's eager embrace between neck and foreleg,
        
“Daddy, I tried my best.” the filly sniffled into her father's coat whilst, behind them, the other ponies and zebras marvelled at the state of the tent.

Quarter Mane looked over to his medic, “How is she, Doc?”

Medical Officer, Lt. Copperhead had moved swiftly, living up to the serpent-entwined rod she bore as a cutie-mark. Zeneela's body was wrapped in fresh bandages while a splint was being tied to her broken leg. The medic looked up at her commanding officer.

“She's lost a lot of blood, Sir, but we got to her in time. We just need to get her somewhere more comfortable," she said after a cursory glance around the tent: its hygiene clearly not up to anypony's standards any more. "Still," she seemed to concede, "quick-thinking of the filly to use paper like that.”
        
“Paper?” the Major asked and levitated a couple of blood-spattered pages. “Britty, are...are these from your book?”
        
“I...I had to,” the foal said. “There were so many and there was nothing I could use and it was the heaviest thing I knew I could lift and...” An exclamation from one of the ponies interrupted her and the major turned as the remnants of the encyclopaedia was pulled away from where it had fallen; revealing the slumped grey form of the asanbosam, looking as if something had literally thrown the book at it. Weapons were levelled at it and a zebra guard with more ornate jewellery than the others dropped down beside the creature's body. After a few checks she looked up, eyes wide,
        
“It is dead.” Shocked murmurs filled the tent from the collected equines.

Britannia was stunned, “Dead? But...but...I didn't mean to kill it.”

The Lead Zebra approached the young filly, “You, did this?” she asked in a deep, ominous voice. Britannia's bottom lip quivered, she felt Roary brush up against her leg, a low growl of warning in his throat as he looked up at the zebra who was scrutinising the filly with unreadable eyes.
        
“I had to,” the little pony said, “to save Zeneela.” The soldiers and zebras shared a look but stayed silent.

It isn't in a pony's nature to kill. Fight: yes. Defend: of course. But to take a life, even when necessary, was something so unsettling that only the most psychotic or dead to the magic of Harmony couldn't help but feel its wrongness in their hearts. But, on the other hoof, they were the Ponies Who Serve. The ponies for whom doing what they had to, even when the cost was great, was both their calling and their curse.
        
The soldiers listened with growing amazement as the filly began to babble; recounting what had happened, what she'd felt and what she'd done. When she'd reached the part about throwing the book even Corporal Pin Point, the Expedition's stoic sharp-shooter, whistled through her teeth in wonder. A unicorn Britannia's age with that kind of telekinetic power?

Major Quarter Mane stayed silent though: his mind running a mile a minute. She's going back to Canterlot. I'm calling off the expedition. I'll inform the Zevera Assembly and to Tartarus with the Ministry of Defence! She should never have come here. How could I have let this happen to her? I was a selfish, stupid old fool. Hyacinth must never hear about this. No-pony must ever hear about this. He rested a hoof gingerly on his daughter's neck and gazed down on her,
        
“Hush now, lass. It's going to be all right,” he soothed. “No-pony's angry with you, we're just...” He blinked, eyes focusing on her flank; at something he'd missed. The words dried up on his tongue. There, almost hidden amid the drying blood, a picture had appeared: a golden orb, decorated in jewelled bands and topped with the red Heart of Harmony. Sweet Mother of Celestia. Britannia looked up at her father,

“Just what, Daddy?” Before he could reassemble his thoughts Lt. Copper Head coughed for attention.
        
“Hate to interrupt the war stories,” she said while propping up the bandaged Zeneela, “but can somepony lend me a hoof? Miss Zebra, here, isn't the lightest of loads.”

One of the zebras trotted over to her fellow guard's side and took some of the weight upon herself. As she did, Zeneela quietly spoke a few words of Quaghili. The other zebra replied and Zeneela appeared to nod. The other zebra called out and they were swiftly joined by the Lead Zebra. An animated conversation began to take place between the three with the Medic looking lost and a little peeved.
        
Britannia looked up as, the conversation seemingly completed, Zeneela limped over to her with her bearers at her sides. The zebra dipped her head and nuzzled the filly's cheek.
        
“Thank you,” she whispered before she and her escort exited the tent. Behind Zeneela the Lead Zebra approached the astonished filly and cleared her throat.
        
“Sister Zeneela confirms the tale you've told. You, in great esteem, she dearly holds. Please, feel no shame at what you've done. Our boundless gratitude, you have won,” she announced, before bowing her head. “Mpira wa Dhahabu Britannia.” The other zebras followed suit, bowing in unison, leaving the Equestrians to awkwardly wonder if they should do the same. Britannia couldn't help but paw the ground slightly, seeing all those striped faces dipped solemnly towards her. She felt her cheeks grow hot and, instead, looked at the floor. Then, without another word, the zebras filed out with two of them bearing the corpse of the asanbosam across their backs to dispose of as they saw fit.
        
“What did those words mean, Daddy?” Britannia asked, quietly. Quarter Mane knew they meant a lot of things, for Quaghili is a language of deep complexity and multiple levels of meaning. One meaning in particular ran through his head as he looked again at the cutie-mark his daughter didn't seem to have realised she'd earned yet.
        
“It means 'beautiful defender, my dear,” he said, using another one, “and it's a title of great respect among the Zebra.” She seemed to let that sink in with a thoughtful expression,
        
“Am I in trouble, Daddy?” she asked. A smile creased Quarter Mane's face and he embraced his daughter again,
        
“Of course not, lass, we're all just glad you aren't hurt.” He winced slightly as his daughter brushed his knee. She looked at it with concern, seeing the dried blood and the teeth marks.
        
“But you are, Daddy.”

Her father smiled sardonically, the image the troops expected of him, “Oh, you know me," he said. "Never let the buggers, etcetera.” He glared at the smirking soldiers. “Now what are you lot doing, standing around like a bunch of mules? Haven't we got a camp to secure? Dismissed, the lot of you.” And the ponies fell out, murmuring amongst themselves and glancing furtively at the bomb-flanked filly.
        
“Now come along, young filly-me-lass,” Quarter Mane said to his beautiful defender, “let's get you over to the wash tent and clean this mess off you, eh?” Britannia nodded, wiping away the drying tears from her eyes, and the Major watched the little red-haired pony with the manticore cub at her heels as they trotted out together into the war-torn encampment. The Holy Hoof-Grenade cutie-mark on her flank was as bright as a new bit in the moonlight, carrying with it all the connotations of that iconic and ambiguous symbol. It was her coming of age, the most important event of a young pony's life. Her special talent. He wondered how she would react when she realised. And, in turn, how would he react to her.
        
The stallion sighed heavily. He had a lot to think about.

...The End of The Beginning.

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Sketch depicting the young Britannia (age 7) as drawn by Lt. Ordnance Survey: the expedition’s cartographer. It is dated 18th July 976 AC, three days before the attack by the asanbosam. The pith helmet she’s wearing bears the regimental crest of the R.E.E.F and likely belonged to the artist himself. Also depicted is her pet manticore, "Roary", as a cub. Personally I never imagined the big lug could possibly be described as ‘cute’ until I saw this. Nor Britannia for that matter, but then I’m hardly the best pony to judge such things. -CC

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