Book I: Britannia and the Holy Hoof-Grenade

by Hazel Hooves

Title Page & Part I

Book I

Britannia and the Holy Hoof-Grenade

Concerning Britannia’s involvement in the Buckswana Expedition by the Royal Equestrian Expeditionary Force in the summer of 976 AC

The Encyclopaedia of Equestrian Antiquities Vol. IX

Part I

Every story must begin somewhere: it is the universal law of narrative. Of course, if you go back far enough: back to the very first beginning, every story starts at the same place. So, determining where or when or how a story should begin is rather difficult and very important.

Maybe this story began centuries ago, in a place now lying only as ruins buried beneath the sands of time, where the most learned and powerful ponies of the age set down a plan: a plan to create something that could change the world.

Or maybe it began here, in a clearing on a humid night in the untamed jungle of darkest Zebrica while the Mare in the Moon bathed her silvery light over the forest canopy, eliciting a humming chorus from an innumerable choir of insects. A small encampment was in the process of bedding down: a few zebra guards forming a picket around its boundaries. With bamboo quarter-staffs balanced over their withers, their senses were sharply tuned for any discordance in the music of the forest. Meanwhile their companions, or those who weren't already drifting off to a mosquito-bothered sleep, were sat around the central campfire. The shadows that the mingled zebras and soldier ponies cast upon the canvas of the encircling tents flickered in the firelight, dancing to their animated chatter about the events of the day. All the while, above their heads, a banner bearing the regimental colours of the Royal Equestrian Expeditionary Force hung limply in the still air. These were ponies far from home.

Inside one of the sizeable tents, a middle-aged unicorn stallion with a compass for a cutie-mark and an unruly scarlet moustache was hunched over a trestle table, reading a map by the light of a firefly lantern. Shrouded in mosquito netting, the sleeping form of a manticore cub lay on a bedroll close by. The cuteness of its bewhiskered kitten-like face was nearly outweighed by its furled leathery wings and twitching scorpioid tail. While next to the diminutive predator nestled a young red-haired filly. Her coat was white, her flank was blank and her blue eyes were absorbed in an enormous book resting between her fore-hooves.

Yes, it seems this might be the best place to start this story after all.

***

"And Clover the Clever raised the Hoof-Grenade up on high, saying:

"O Princess of the Sun, bless this thy Hoof Grenade that with it thou mayest bless thy enemies with the power of Harmony, in thy mercy."
And the Princess did grin, and the ponies did feast upon the hay and celery and carrots and apple pies and orange juice and breakfast cereals and fruit baskets and large muff..."

Britannia sighed and scanned down the page to the good stuff, or at least the stuff that didn't make her hungry.

"Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hoof-Grenade of Amity towards thy foe, who, being unloved in my sight, shall be filled with Love & Tolerance until the proverbial manure be expelled."

An unusual book for a young filly to be reading really; but, then again, this wasn't an ordinary young filly. At her Uncle Living Stone's farmstead back in Woahzambique she had been enthralled as the old explorer had waxed lyrical in his Highland Trots brogue about the Crusade for the Holy Hoof-Grenade: of the Knights of Celestia who braved the wilderness searching for an ancient relic of great power. Then he'd shown her the book, full of its beautiful pictures: the knights with their lances and armour, the awe-inspiring landscapes, the ancient fortresses and temples and the Hoof-Grenade itself.

Its picture had looked so real she could almost imagine herself holding it in her very hooves: a golden orb, encrusted with jewelled bands and topped with the bright red Heart of Harmony. When her uncle had given her that book, the day they'd left, she'd been overwhelmed. It was nothing like any of her dry school books back in Canterlot. Nothing like anything in her life back in Canterlot, really. In the huge echoing chambers of Buckingham Manor it was all about being seen and not heard and keeping up appearances and being a respectable little lady. In the pages of her book, however, among the myths and fables there was colour and mystery and the promise of adventure.

She'd stared at the pictures until she could see them in her sleep and now she was determined to read it from cover to cover, every word. Which was hard going, as there were so many she still didn't quite get, not to mention that there were 2,312 pages of them (plus appendices). She rubbed at her eyes with a hoof. The olden-time language probably wasn't helping either.

But the little pony was determined because she was going to be an explorer some day, and not just any explorer: the greatest explorer. She would be a treasure hunter, and a globe-trotter and a monster hunter and a knight. She would be the greatest explorer because she would be just like her daddy. She glanced up, eyes full of the limitless adoration only a foal could feel, at the stallion stooped over his map. Her father, Major Quarter Mane of the R.E.E.F: the best soldier in Princess Celestia's Army and the bestest daddy in the world.

“Daddy?” she asked. The lilt of her accent betrayed the Buckinghamshire-inspired elocution lessons her Great Aunt, Hyacinth Bouquet, had given her since she was little.

“Hmm?” her father answered distractedly as he magically walked a set of callipers over the map.

“What does 'the proverbial manure be expelled' mean?”

“It means...it means...wait, what?” he blinked as if coming out of a trance then turned incredulously toward his only child. “Where in Celestia's name did you get that from?” Little Britannia clopped pointedly on the Encyclopaedia of Equestrian Antiquities.

“Oh,” he chuckled and shook his head. He'd never have heard the end of it from Hyacinth if Quaghili wasn't the only kind of language her grand-niece had learned on this trip. He knelt beside the little pony, nosed aside the mosquito netting, and began to flick the pages of the weighty tome with his practised magic. “Well, young filly-me-lass, in this case it means that whoever is hit by the power of the hoof-grenade, all their bad feelings go away, see?”

The page bore a triptych: three pictures linked together. The first depicted a scary looking troll of some sort with pony figures running in terror. The second: of the creature being hit by a rainbow coloured explosion centred on a small golden orb. Finally, in the creatures place, the next panel showed a peaceful figure of smiling benevolence surrounded by happy ponies.

Britannia looked up with a very un-foallike arched eyebrow. “Really, Daddy?”

Quarter Mane's own brows rose at the scepticism in his daughter's voice. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. For all her passion and youthful exuberance she was growing up. She'd started seeing things on this trip across the world that very few foals from her background would have. Perhaps she was realising that it was unlikely that the world's problems could just be solved with a magical friendship beam.

“Well,” he scratched his whiskers pensively with a hoof, “that's certainly the popular theory. It's said that the Holy Hoof-Grenade was made by ponies in ancient times. A magical device created for protection and to dispel evil from the land, or so the story goes. Some speculate that it was created with the same Fire of Friendship that helped unite the tribes and found Equestria. You remember the story of Hearth's-Warming Eve don't you?”

Britannia nodded. What foal in the whole of Equestria didn't? The Major glanced over the book.

“But, then again,” he said, getting into the flow of his favoured subject matter, “some scholars think there are other possibilities. There's the nature of the artefact itself, f'rinstance. At the end of the day, it's a grenade: a weapon and an explosive one at that. So maybe the proverbial...wossname in question isn't just the bad feelings within the...er...target, but the target itself. So it may not mean changing it from evil to good but...um...”

“Killing it?”

Quarter Mane broke his reverie and looked at his daughter. She was now looking at the triptych intently, a troubled knot creasing her brow as her eyes flicked from picture to picture as if she was seeing the little scenario playing out in a different light.

Not for the first time, the Major felt a flicker of doubt enter his mind. Was it really the right thing, bringing his daughter along with him this time? Over the years, as duty had called him away, he'd found himself growing even more racked with worry about when he'd ever see her again. It troubled him how different she'd be every time as the cold conformity of Canterlot culture broadened the distance between them. It was certainly a good thing to take her away from that, to see the world beyond the privilege and the tea-parties.

He'd seen her take to the harsh life with the R.E.E.F like a fish to water, just absorbing it and letting it breathe new life into her. She'd wanted to know about it all: the cultures they met, the animals they encountered, first aid, tracking and, yes, even self defence, though that was really just sport for the troops. They got a good laugh out of watching a little filly in pigtails trying to fence and learning how to parry with a quarterstaff. He'd been watching her, though, and she was learning fast.

They certainly hadn't laughed when she'd wandered into camp one day with the bandaged form of a manticore cub draped over her back; the same one that now, despite everypony-else's misgivings, refused to leave her side, loyal as a guard dog. A guard dog with some distinctly unsettling eating habits to any parent who has to explain the concept of the food chain, Quarter Mane thought as the sleeping cub yawned, displaying a reaping machine's worth of little fangs to the world.

No, she was certainly growing up out here, and being able to share that time with her was a treasure greater than anything he'd ever wish to discover. Still, it worried him just what he was making her grow up to be. He unconsciously glanced towards the sheathed sabre on his own bedroll. Everypony in Equestria thought they knew what it was to be a soldier for the Princess: doing their duty and defending the realm for the good of the nation. They called them heroes but tended to forget that, sometimes, it came down to just you, somepony else, and one of you not getting back up at the end of it. That his little filly could so readily jump to that implication gave him an unsettling pause for thought.

“Well, maybe not kill, per se,” he said quickly, brushing the thoughts under the rug for the time-being,“but certainly give it a hard time. Of course, lass, it's probably all just a legend in any case. A myth to help explain what power the magic of Harmony can have. It's what's known as an allegory.”

Britannia rolled her eyes, “I know what an allegory is, Daddy.”

“Good to know those teachers back home aren't a complete waste of time,” he said with a smirk. His daughter giggled causing her pet to flick his ears and roll over in his sleep.

“Well, the allegory here,” Quarter Mane continued, “is that what the Knights were actually looking for was the power within themselves to fight the evil of this world.” Britannia seemed to mull this over for a few seconds.

“But some legends could be based on real things, couldn't they?” she said eventually. Quarter Mane smiled at his daughter.

“Well, my dear. That's why it's my job to separate the stories from reality,” he said. She nodded to herself and looked up at him with a determined expression.

“Well if it is real, I want to be the first pony to find it.”

“I'm sure you will.” he said with a chuckle. “Now, I think that's enough history for one night," and he closed the book with a spark of magic. “We have a long day tomorrow and it's time for all young relic-hunters to go to...” He stopped, ears flicking as something that had been nagging at his brain for a bit finally registered. The ever-present sizzling of the insects had gone deathly silent.

The manticore cub's eyes snapped open and he rose to his feet with a low growl, hackles rising and tail twitching.

“What is it, Roary?” Britannia asked her pet with a quiver in her voice. Quarter Mane's eyes narrowed.

“Something isn't right,” he muttered. As if in answer, the tent-flap was suddenly pushed open, revealing the figure of a zebra. She was breathing heavily, blood oozing from terrible wounds. She leaned upon her quarterstaff.

“Major,” she gasped in pain, “it's...” Before she could finish, a terrible howl emanated from outside the tent; a guttural wail that ended in a piercing squeal making the ponies' pulses quicken with primal fear.

“Asanbosam! Asanbosam!” a voice cried out. “To arms one and all, or else the camp shall surely fall!” The zebra in the doorway sighed and collapsed on the floor, her life's blood soaking into the rush matting. Not losing a second, Quarter Mane hauled her on to his bunk.

“Quick Britty, fetch the first aid kit!” he cried out. “We need to bind her wounds.” Without questioning, the filly grabbed the satchel with its crossed hearts symbol and wriggled out from under the mosquito netting. Father and daughter practically tore the contents from the kit and set about the zebra with gauze and bandage, knowing full well that there wasn't a moment to lose. All the while the howling, and sounds of combat and confusion, filled the air.

A uniformed pony pushed his way into the tent, his spear-point dripping a nasty-looking liquid, “Sir! We're being attacked from all sides. We need you out here!”

Quarter Mane looked from the soldier to the zebra and then to his daughter. Her white coat was stained red as she tightened a bandage with her mouth. She looked up at him with determined eyes.

“Go, Daddy,” she said through clenched teeth. “I know what to do, she'll be okay.” The manticore cub paced around the filly, growling, with ears and eyes flicking in all directions. Quarter Mane gave a brisk nod and, with a flare of his horn, he unsheathed his sabre in a streak of silver and joined his troops outside, leaving his daughter to her task.

***

Comments

[Genktarov]

SO. MUCH. WIN!

Have 20 Moustaches for being bucking awesome!

[Dozy Dreamer]

Good heavens, ser, I haven't been this desperately hooked on a story since the last Sharpe novel came out.
Bravo, ser - masterfully done.

[MonsieurDreamer]

i48.tinypic.com/2zzrshu.gif

[deathtap]

With a mere 68 likes, this fic is so deplorably underrated that it's almost criminal.